


The Year's Midnight

by GilShalos1



Series: Without Bugles [2]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Complete, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 13:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1900290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilShalos1/pseuds/GilShalos1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wartime police operation on the longest night of the year is interrupted, and Foyle and Sam meet an acquaintance in need of help. But trust in wartime is a fragile thing ... (follows "Ill Met By Moonlight")</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Year's Midnight

 

_Sunday 13 December 1942_

_St Lucy_ _’ s Day. ‘Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.’ Feels odd to remember all that sort of thing and Daddy and so on in the middle of all this. Still, as Mr F says we must carry on as much as usual as we can, and he’s right of course, or what’s the point? Am glad not to be listening to Daddy’s sermons though. Jolly good thing for him that they’re not able to start rationing words! He’d be quite disapproving if he knew I’d been working today - and I will be again later - a proper stakeout! Things are going missing from Fowler’s yard and Mr F and I are going to see who it is tonight. And M and B and some of the other officers of course. The moon is quite full so we’ll be able to see who it is perfectly clearly altho’ I suppose that means they’ll be able to see us too but what with all the bombing and people living in hostels Mr F and me will just look like two people trying to be alone for a while. Gosh, I hope Mr F hasn’t thought of that he’ll get all worried about his reputation again and tell me to stay behind._

 

Foyle leaned against the car door, one arm along the back of the seat, and adjusted his hat. “I hope this isn’t going to get you into too much trouble with your landlady, Sam.”

 

“Oh, she’ll just assume I’m out with my young man, sir,” Sam said brightly, hands on the wheel as if ready to race off in pursuit at an instant’s notice. “Give me a few disapproving looks for the sake of good form, but her son is in the navy and her heart won’t be in it.”

 

“I … see,” Foyle said. “Then I hope this isn’t going to get you into too much trouble with your young man.”

 

“Don’t have one, sir,” she confided cheerfully. “It’s awfully hard to find a good one, these days.”

 

Foyle chewed the inside of his cheek, not sure if he wanted to encourage further information. “Oh?”

 

“Yes,” Sam said. “I mean, it’s perfectly understandable, they don’t know how long they’ve got until - well, ‘gather ye rosebuds’ and so forth. And I do rather see the point, and it makes one feel like such a beast for … for _not_ , sir. But we might _not_ all die tomorrow, and then where would _I_ be?”

 

“Ye-es. I take the point.” _Rather better than she might imagine._ That had been another war, another generation of young men determined to _tear their pleasures with rough strife through the iron gates of life_.

 

_Another generation of young women who bore social censure and personal consequences in a way those boys never did._

 

“Besides,” Sam said. “I’d much rather be here with you. Who needs to go to the pictures when you can be in the middle of a real live gangster film yourself?”

 

He was alarmed. “ _If_ anything happens, and I don’t suppose it will, you’re to stay in the car, Sam.”

 

“Of course, sir,” she said, and then added: “Unless I’m needed.”

 

“You _won’t_ be needed,” Foyle said firmly. “These are very dangerous men, Sam. Leave them to the police. After all,” he added as her shoulders drooped, “what if one of them tries to drive away and you’re off running after someone?”

 

“Golly, sir, yes. I didn’t think! I’ll be right here, at the ready.”

 

“Good.”

 

And then he heard it, a second before Sam’s head turned sharply. “Is that a plane, sir?”

 

“Yep. No sirens, though.”

 

“One of ours, then,” Sam said. “There it is. Gosh, it’s awfully low. The engines are much brighter than I thought they’d be. But then I s’pose when there’s planes overhead at night I’m usually in the shelter, so - ”

 

Foyle leaned forward, peering through the windshield. “That’s not the engines. Start the car, Sam.”

 

She did, obediently, not quite understanding why. “Not the engines? Then -”

 

“Drive, Sam, quick as you like. After it.”

 

She stood on the accelerator and the car jerked forward. “Why? And if it’s not the engines, what was it?”

 

“The plane’s on fire.”

 

The plane dipped out of sight behind a row of trees as Sam drove at what was, in Foyle’s opinion, a slightly faster pace than was safe in a blackout. Foyle waited for the _crump_ of impact. _It could be Andrew in that plane,_ he thought, though even his limited knowledge of airplane types had been enough to tell the plane was not a Spitfire and as far as he knew, his son was nowhere near the South Coast.

 

If not Andrew, it was _someone’s_ son.

 

Sam flung the car around the last corner and brought it to a sharp stop just before a bridge. Foyle could see the mangled shape of the plane in the river below them, lit now only by moonlight. “There, sir!”

 

Foyle was already out of the car as she spoke. He half-slid down the bank, hearing the sirens of the other police cars coming closer and, behind him, Sam skidding after him.

 

“Sir!” she panted. “Do be careful sir, it might blow!”

 

“Stay back!” he ordered, and splashed into the water, cold enough to take his breath away.

 

He hadn’t imagined she’d obey him, _although a man can live in hope_ , and indeed she was close behind him as he reached the wreckage, the water waist deep, the current fast. The plane was tilted away from them and Foyle reached for the hatch. _Still closed. They didn’t jump._ It was blisteringly hot beneath his hand and he began to pull off his jacket.

“Let me, sir,” Sam said, pushing past him without waiting for his assent. “Gloves.”

 

She wrenched at the hatch and at the same moment there was a clang and an extremely Anglo-Saxon oath - which answered any questions as to the nationality of the occupants - from inside the plane. The hatch popped open to reveal a cloud of smoke, a flickering glow, and a very grimy face.

 

“Get out, man,” Foyle said.

 

“Two more in here,” the airman said. “Need help - my arm’s bust - ” He moved back from the hatch. _Nothing for it_ , Foyle thought grimly, shutting the fire out of his mind, and seized the sides of the hatch, hauling himself up.

 

Smoke and darkness made it impossible to see. Foyle felt his way forward and touched cloth, identified a leg. Hoping he wouldn’t do more damage, he managed to get the body under its arms and tugged it towards the hatch, lowering it down to Sam where she stood, braced against the river’s speed. _She’ll be able to manage with the added buoyancy of the water_. “Get him as clear as you can,” he said, with relief at being able to give her a command that would take her to safety and one which she would actually obey.

 

She nodded, teeth chattering, and began to haul the unconscious body to the bank. Foyle was dimly aware of men’s voices coming closer, but they seemed very far away compared to the crackle of the flames. _Definitely larger now._

 

“Here,” the airman called out, and coughed. Foyle staggered forward again and reached him, stooped over another immobile form. “Got us home - don’t know how - thank god for the river.”

 

This body was heavier but the airman helped with his one good arm and between them they managed to get the unconscious pilot to the hatch.

 

The welcome sight of Brooke and a Home Guard volunteer - Standish, Foyle’s memory supplied - greeted them, and the limp body was quickly lifted down to them, the injured airman climbing after. Then Foyle jumped down.

 

Everyone hastily waded away from the burning plane.

 

Except for Samantha Stewart, of course, who was sloshing back towards him. “Sir! Do come on!”

 

He seized her arm and pulled her with him, after the others. “Sam, I told you to - ”

 

“I _did_ ,” she said indignantly, and Foyle saw the water in front of them suddenly brighten. He pushed Sam down and flattened himself over her an instant before the concussion of the explosion swept over them like a brief false dawn.

 

It was not as bad as he had feared, although he suspected the back of his neck would be pink as sunburn for a few days. “You all right, Sam?”

 

“Yes, sir!” She was almost submerged and breathless, and he hastened to get up, then offered his hand.

 

“You sure?” They were both soaked, and Foyle at least felt chilled to the bone.

 

“Right as rain, sir. Was that the fuel tank?”

 

“At a guess. Come on.”

 

He helped her out of the water to where Milner and Standish were bent over a prone body on the ground, the ambulatory airman and the others looking on anxiously.

 

“He’s not too good, sir,” Milner said. “We need to get him to hospital.”

 

“R-right,” Foyle said. “Brooke, give Sam your coat. And the other?”

 

“Over here, sir,” Sam said helpfully, when the others looked nonplussed. She hurriedly shrugged into Sergeant Brooke’s jacket and pointed a little way away. “Sir, she’s a woman. I didn’t know they had women pilots.”

 

“In the air transport auxiliary,” Foyle said, heading in the direction she indicated. “But I don’t think this is … quite like that.”

 

“Why not?” Sam asked as she followed, rolling up the too-long sleeves.

 

“Well, for one thing, they generally don’t send women where they’re likely to get shot down.”

 

“Gosh, is that what happened, do you think?”

 

“Planes don’t normally fall from the sky without reason. Or so Andrew assures me.” Foyle knelt beside the motionless form. Sam was right, she _was_ a woman, although dressed in what seemed to be mechanic’s coveralls - far too big, and soaking wet now. He brushed aside her hair and found the pulse at her neck, slow and unsteady. “She’ll need to go to hospital as well. Go and find out if there’s an ambulance on the way, would you? And find some blankets if you can.”

 

“Right you are, sir.” Her running footsteps receded.

 

Foyle gently turned the woman over, half expecting to see the tell-tale blood from some penetrating wound, but no - just dirt and grime and the detritus of a crash.

 

“Well, what’s a woman doing in a plane, then?” Standish said from behind him, and the beam of his torch swept over her face.

 

“Mrs Chenard!” Sam exclaimed as Foyle, too, recognized the narrow features, the firm chin, revealed by the light. She was thinner than she had been when they had met in Ashingdon, a puffy, ugly wound beneath her left eye distorting her features, but Foyle had learned over a lifetime’s police career to ignore what injury or disguise could alter and look instead at jaw and cheekbones, at the proportion between temple and chin, and the woman before him was unquestionably the same woman he and Sam had last seen boarding a small plane at a secret airfield almost two years earlier.

 

“Blanket, sir,” Sam said, offering it. “From the car. I’ve got my first aid kit, too.”

 

Foyle took the blanket and spread it over Jen Chenard. “Sal volatile?”

 

Sam knelt down and rummaged in the kit, producing the bottle. “Shall I?”

 

“Go ahead.”

 

The sharp odor made him wrinkle his nose as Sam uncorked the bottle and held it beneath Jen Chenard’s nose. It had the desired effect: Jen jerked and opened her eyes.

 

“Stay still,” Foyle told her. “Are you all right?”

 

“ _Ja_ , _Kriminaldirektor,”*_ she gasped, her German heavily French-accented.

 

“It’s a bloody Jerry spy,” Standish said indignantly, stepping back and bringing his rifle to bear.

 

“No, she isn’t,” Foyle said. “Mrs Chenard? Jen? You’re in England. You’ve had a crash landing.”

 

“ _Je ne comprends pas - je suis desolee - ”_

 

“All right.” He touched her shoulder, meaning to reassure, and she flinched from him. “ _Vous êtes en sécurité, vous comprenez?”_

_“Oui,”_ she faltered, but her face held nothing but fear.

 

 _“L'avion s'est écrasé, mais vous êtes en sécurité maintenant,”_ he told her, adding, _“En angleterre.”_

_“Non, ce n'est pas possible_ ,” she said quickly. _“En angleterre? Mais comment? Et pourquois?”_

“Sir,” Sam said uncertainly.

 

“Bring the car as close as you can, Sam.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

 _“Nous vous recevons à l'hôpital,”_ Foyle told Jen Chenard.

 

“ _Non!”_ She pulled away from him and at the sudden movement Standish brought his rifle up again.

 

“Put it _away_ , man,” Foyle said testily. “I know who she is, she’s not German, and she’d lose a fight with a day old kitten at the moment.”

 

“ _Pas_ _d'hôpital_ ,” Jen insisted.

 

“ _Vous avez été blessé. Vous avez besoin d'un médecin_.”

 

“ _Non, non._ ” She struggled to get up, panic in her voice.

 

Foyle chewed his lip. “All right. _Va bien_. The station. Sam, tell Brooke to go for Dr Wickers, meet us there. _Madame Chenard, Jen, nous vous emmènerons à la station de police._ ”

 

“ _Vous m'avez pris pour quelqu'un d'autre_ ,” Jen said quickly as Sam trotted off. “ _Mon nom est Madame Valois, Jeanne Valois.”_

 

“Sir?” Sam asked, softly, back.

 

“Help me get her up,” Foyle said, and between them they lifted Jen to her feet, draping the blanket around her shoulders.“Hit her head, I should think, in the crash.”

 

“Oh! I’ve read about that,” Sam said, slipping her arm around Jen’s waist. “People who suddenly speak foreign languages, that they haven’t even learned. Or forget who they are. Or both.”

 

“Not _quite_ the same thing, I think.”

 

Jen went to a dead weight before they reached the car and Foyle and Sam between them carried her the last few yards. “What about the airman?” Foyle asked. “What did they say about the ambulance?”

 

“Should be here any minute, sir, they said,” Sam said. “And he’s had a nasty crack on the head but his color was good, at least, it seemed to be, it’s tricky to tell by torchlight. Sir, are you sure we shouldn’t take Mrs Chenard to hospital?”

 

“No-ot _entirely_ , no,” Foyle said. “But a roomful of people without security clearances and of unknown discretion might not be the best place for her, don’t you think? Given where we last saw her and where she’s just … _come_ from.”

 

“Right,” Sam said. She planted her feet and braced herself against Jen’s weight. “Open the door, sir, and get in, across to the other side.” When he hesitated, she said firmly: “They gave us training, sir, for transporting wounded. Get in the back, so I can load her in to you.”

 

Her voice held the confident note of command, and Foyle obeyed instructions. Sam lowered her burden enough to lean her into the car, and once Foyle was supporting Jen’s shoulders Sam tucked her legs inside and shut the door, hurrying around to the driver’s side.

 

“Try to keep her from rattling around if you can, sir,” she said, and began to bump carefully forward to the road.

 

It was all Foyle could do to keep _himself_ from rattling around but he braced one arm against the seat back in front of him and the other around Jen Chenard. In the closed confines of the car he could smell the sour odors of stale sweat, bodily wastes, and vomit despite her immersion in the river, and the sickly sweet scent of infection from the gash on her cheek.

 

The ride became smoother once Sam had the car back on the road, and they made good speed back into Hastings. As the car came to a halt, Jen opened her eyes with a suddenness that made Foyle suspect she had regained consciousness some miles earlier.

 

“We’re -” _here_ , Foyle would have said. Before he could finish the sentence, Jen had twisted and punched him sharply in the throat.

 

She was too weak to make the blow more than painful, but it was certainly that. Scrambling away from Foyle across the back seat she fumbled the door open and lunged out, sprawling onto the street on hands and knees.

 

“ _Sam_ ,” Foyle wheezed, going after her, and his driver snapped out of shocked immobility and leapt out.

 

It wasn’t much of an escape attempt: Jen was still trying to get her feet as Foyle followed her out of the car and grabbed her arms. She twisted and struggled but he was used to handling suspects and held her firmly. “Jen. _Jennifer_. Stop, _arrête_! _M'écouter_!”*

 

The fight seemed to go out of her but Foyle didn’t relax his grip. “Door, Sam.”

 

Sam jumped to open the door of the station and the light from inside swept over her, the only light in the blacked-out street, turning her hair to a halo. Foyle hauled Jen Chenard around to face it. “Look, it’s Miss Stewart. _Miss Stewart._ I’m Christoper Foyle. This is _England._ You’re _safe_.”

 

“I say, sir, do come in,” Sam said. “If I keep this door open much longer you’ll have to arrest me.”

 

“M’ser Foyle?” Jen said softly.

 

“Yes.” He half-pushed, half-carried her inside, and she did not resist. Sam shut the door behind them.

 

“Tea, sir?” she asked.

 

“As much milk and treacle as you can,” Foyle said. As Sam hurried off to the kitchen, he turned Jen around so she could see him. “Remember me? Ashingdon?”

 

“Five and twenty ponies,” she whispered. Her eyes were too bright but there was recognition in them, and Foyle loosened his hold on her, taking her elbow instead.

 

“Trotting through the dark,” he finished.

 

“ _Je dois parler à_ ... a telephone. I have to -” She clutched suddenly at her neck, and an expression of panic crossed her face. “ _Mon médaillon_ , do you have it?” Her voice rose. “Did you take it?”

 

“You … may have lost it in the crash?” Foyle suggested. “You can use the telephone in my office. It’s this way. Can you walk a little?”

 

“We have to _retour, tout de suite,_ ” she said urgently.

 

“To the plane?It, ah, the fuel blew,” Foyle said, and Jen lost what little color there was in her face. “Everyone got out,” he assured her, steering her along the corridor. Sam emerged from the kitchen with a steaming mug and he directed her to his office with a motion of his eyes. “Banged around a bit.”

 

Sam had put the mug on his desk and pulled the visitor’s chair around by the time Foyle helped Jen through the door. He lowered her into the chair. “The doctor will be here soon. Do you have a number for your call?”

 

She frowned in concentration. “I do - it’s …” She clutched her head. “It’s … _merde_!”

 

“Miss Pierce do?” Foyle suggested, and when Jen nodded he gave her the mug and went around to the other side of the desk. He took a moment to take off his sodden jacket and waistcoat, and accept the blanket Sam offered, and then paged through his address book. _Pearson, Peters, Peterson, Picton … Pierce_. He suspected that the number would be answered by _someone_ whatever hour the phone rang, and dialed. “Sam - something dry for Mrs Chenard and yourself, if you can find it, and see if Dr Wickers is here - Miss Hilda Pierce, please. Detective Chief Inspector Foyle. Yes, I do know what time it is, thank you. This is urgent.”

 

Jen took a mouthful of the tea and grimaced. For a second she seemed about to spit it back into the mug, and then with a shudder she swallowed. “What _is_ this?”

 

“Tea,” Foyle said, and into the receiver. “Still here. Tea with treacle. There’s no sugar, I’m afraid.”

 

Jen set the mug down. “I’d rather have black,” she said firmly.

 

Foyle reached across the desk to pick the mug up and put it back in her hands. “God know I don’t like the taste either but you need it.”

 

Hilda Pierce’s cool, dry voice, tinny with distance and the quality of the line, spoke in his ear. “Mr Foyle. You make a habit of being unexpected.”

 

“Not me in this case,” he said, as Jen Chenard looked up sharply. “Our mutual friend from Cornwall would like to talk to you.”

 

There was the slightest of pauses. “The crew?”

 

“They’ve been taken to hospital,” Foyle said. “Our friend refused, and is here at the station with me.”

 

“Put her on,” Miss Pierce said. “If you’d be so kind.”

 

Foyle held the receiver out for Jen to take, scanned his desk to make sure there was nothing on it which would compromise a case if a defendant’s lawyer learned that a civilian had been alone with it, and left her in privacy.

 

As he closed the door behind him, he heard Jen say in a voice that shook only slightly: “Tea with _treacle_ , Hilda, you’ve let the country go to hell in a hand-basket.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_Sunday 13 December 1942 or Monday now I suppose_

_This is just TOO exciting but terrible. Poor Mrs C seemed to have quite lost her marbles at first and one can’t blame her, it must have been ABSOLUTELY petrifying. I was quite petrified myself when Mr F plunged into the river but he was right of course, one must Do One’s Bit in an emergency. I can’t help thinking about A and something like that happening to him. I do hope if it should there’d be someone there like Mr F and me to help._

_Do hope the doctor hurries up with Mrs C. All very well for Mr F to tell me to find dry clothes but it’s not as if there’s scads of spare gear lying around the station there Is A War On after all. Could stand the rest of it but my shoes make the most disgusting SQUELCHING noise with every step which is just the Absolute Limit._

“I say, _sir_ ,” Sam said in what she no doubt believed to be a discreet undertone. “Are you sure it’s all right for Dr Wickers to be alone with Mrs Chenard?”

 

“Doctors are usually alone with their patients,” Foyle pointed out. “Unless you … know something about Dr Wickers that I should?”

 

“No, not at all,” she said quickly. “I was more thinking about Mrs Chenard. I mean, she did _hit_ you. And Dr Wickers is quite old.”

 

Foyle considered pointing out that he himself was not all that far shy of Dr Wicker’s apparently venerable old age but decided that discretion might well be the better part of valor on this occasion. “We-ell,” he said instead, “she didn’t know who I _was_ , if you woke up in a car with a stranger you might _very_ well do the same thing, not to mention getting knocked about when the plane went down.”

 

“Is that why you had me stand in the light?” Sam asked, and when he nodded, she went on: “She thought we were German soldiers, didn’t she?”

 

“No,” Foyle said shortly. “ _Kriminaldirektor_ isn’t a military rank.”

 

Sam frowned. “I don’t understand, sir.”

 

Foyle saw the door of his office open and Dr Wickers emerge, and touched Sam’s elbow lightly. “Tell you later.” He took a step forward and raised his voice. “Thomas?”

 

Dr Wickers adjusted his spectacles and peered through them at Foyle. “Ah, Christopher.”

 

“How is she?” Foyle asked.

 

“Better off in hospital,” Wickers said.

 

“Yes, we-ell,” Foyle said. “Apart from that?”

 

“Touch of concussion, cut that’s turned nasty, cleaned it up, sulfa should help. General poor condition, other injuries should heal with care,” Wickers said. “You told me not to ask any questions and so I’m not, but I bloody hope you’re going to do something about the bounder who did that to the gel, Christopher.”

 

 _Rather outside my jurisdiction_ , Foyle thought, and made a vague noise that Thomas Wickers took as agreement.

 

“Shouldn’t be sitting around in wet clothes, either.” Wickers frowned at Foyle. “Or you. Don’t need more patients.”

 

“Understood,” Foyle assured him. “She all right to travel?” A second conversation with Hilda Pierce had left him with the distinct impression that he could expect to see the spy-mistress as early tomorrow as she could arrange it, _which would no doubt be very early indeed,_ and he guessed she intended to remove Jen Chenard to somewhere she could be debriefed securely.

 

“Wouldn’t recommend it, won’t kill her,” Wickers said.

“Fine,” Foyle said. “Thank you very much for coming in the middle of the night.”

 

“ _C’est la guerre_ ,* eh?” Wickers said. “ _C’est la_ bloody _guerre.”_

 

“Quite,” Foyle said. As Wickers left with Brooke, he turned to Sam. “Going to need you for a little longer, I’m afraid.”

 

“Absolutely, sir,” she said stoutly.

 

“I’ll explain it to your landlady.”

 

“You’re a brick, sir,” Sam said gratefully. “I think even loyalty to the navy might not stretch _this_ far. What do you need me to do?”

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

  
 

 

_Definitely if only just Monday 14 December 1942_

_Drove Mr F and Mrs C home, Mr F’s home that is, not Mrs C’s which is in Cornwall I suppose. Mr F said he’d need my help and I could quite see why, Mrs C was utterly done in and it’s not like Mr F has a wife to turn her over to. He said he’d find me some dry clothes and I had the AWFUL thought that he might still have Mrs F’s things which would be too sad but he gave me some of A’s things which are miles too big and too sad in a different way but DRY, blessedly beautifully blissfully DRY!_

_If there’s one thing that can be said for being absolutely miserably soaking wet and cold it’s that one really does appreciate it when one isn’t. Daddy would make that into some sort of sermon I expect about suffering being part of God’s plan so we learn to appreciate the good things but I rather think most people would prefer to appreciate them a little LESS if it meant they didn’t have to spend hours dripping on the police station floor or whatever._

_And I’m QUITE sure there’s nothing on EARTH that’s it’s sufficiently important to appreciate more that would make it worth the sort of thing that happens to some people._

Sam came into the kitchen, looking like nothing so much as a street urchin in an old sweater and trousers of Andrew’s, sleeves and cuffs rolled up. Her face was grave. “Sir … Mrs Chenard.”

 

Foyle himself had taken the time to change into dry clothes as well as supplying Sam and Jen Chenard. He turned from the contemplation of his less-than-bursting pantry. “What about her?”

 

“She was cleaning up,” Sam said. “I wasn’t spying on her, honest I wasn’t, sir, but I thought I heard her fall, so I went in, I mean, she could have hurt herself, you saw how shaky she was, and -”

 

“Why I wanted you here,” he reassured her.

 

Sam didn’t look reassured. “Yes, sir. But, sir, she - she has the most awful bruises. Not from the crash, some are quite yellow. And other _marks._ Like burns, but small, like a finger tip. Lots of them.”

 

“Cigarette tip,” Foyle said.

 

“Gosh, how careless,” Sam said, and then: “But Mrs Chenard doesn’t smoke!”

 

“N- _no_. But I’d guess the Gestapo officer who interrogated her does.”

 

Her eyes went wide, her face white, and he was sorry, that he’d told her, that he’d asked her to help Jen Chenard and put her in a position to see and wonder, that they lived in a world where a woman like Samantha Stewart would ever have to learn what people could do to each other for the worst of motives in the worst of circumstances. “Sir. That’s _horrible.”_

 

“Yes,” Foyle said shortly. “It is.” He turned back to the food to spare himself the sight of her face, to spare her the sight of his. _Cheese pancakes it’ll have to be._

“That’s what _Kriminaldirektor_ is,” Sam said. “Isn’t it? The Gestapo?”

 

“Yep,” Foyle said.

 

She was silent a long moment but when she spoke her voice was normal. “Do let me, sir, you’re adding the water too fast. It’ll go all lumpy.”

 

Foyle surrendered the bowl and spoon. “Can’t get used to cooking without any actual _food_ in the ingredients.”

 

“Flour’s food,” Sam said cheerfully. “And powdered egg and Mills milk are _made_ from food, I’m certain of it.”

 

“Are you?” Foyle said dryly. “I’m not.” He began to grate the heel of cheese that was all that was left of that week’s ration.

 

“Well, I’m _almost_ certain,” Sam said. “You should keep chickens, sir. My landlady does. They’re not very good layers, though. Very unpatriotic.”

 

“It’s impossible to underestimate the loyalty of the average chicken, in my experience,” Jen Chenard said from the doorway, and Foyle and Sam both turned.

 

Clad in Andrew’s pajamas, the wound to her face hidden by a bandage, the dirt and grime washed away, she looked suddenly completely ordinary, as if she and Sam might simply be day-trippers stranded by a flat tire in bad weather.

 

“Please sit down,” Foyle said, pulling out a chair for her.

 

Carefully, she lowered herself into it. “Thank you.”

 

“Dinner - or breakfast perhaps? Food, anyway, won’t be long,” Sam said. “We have a shortage of unpatriotic chicken so it’s cheese pancakes.”

 

“I do have some sugar, though,” Foyle said. “Cup of tea?”

 

“Lovely.” Jen’s voice was warm but impersonally so, a well-mannered Englishwoman being a gracious guest.

 

“I’ll have one, sir,” Sam said. “If there’s sugar!” At Foyle’s smile, she added virtuously: “Cooking’s very thirsty work!”

 

“Ri-ight,” Foyle said, and made the tea.

 

The meal was as palatable as anything else from the Ministry of Food leaflets, which was to say, Foyle thought, not very. Sam cleaned her plate in what seemed to be three mouthfuls and sat eying Foyle’s as Jen worked her way through her food slowly but very steadily.

 

“You know,” Sam said with a sigh, “I’ve started to _dream_ about food. Sherry trifle, last night.”

 

Jen set her fork down gently. “ _Vin ordinaire_ and a wheel of brie the size of a car tire.”

 

“Roast beef,” Foyle offered, and both women groaned a little at the thought.

 

“I’d settle for a chop,” Sam said. “Just one. Two would be better, of course.”

 

“With fried onion?” Foyle asked.

 

“Veal and ham pie,” Jen suggested.

 

“Ham!” Sam said so mournfully that Foyle had to hide a smile behind his tea-cup.  

 

“You need to find a pig farmer with an eligible son,” Jen suggested.

 

“Or another American,” Foyle said dryly.

 

“One was enough!” Sam said fervently.

 

“So they’re here?” Jen asked. “There are rumors …”

 

“Over paid, over … _fed_ , and over here,” Foyle said. “We’re very glad to see them, despite _occasional_ misunderstandings.”

 

“How are things over there?” Sam asked. “If you’re allowed to say, of course.”

 

Jen was silent a moment, then shook her head. “I can’t judge what … I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s all right,” Sam said generously. “I can imagine.”

 

“No.” Jen lifted her tea cup. A tremor in her fingers made the liquid shiver. “No. You can’t.” The tremor grew, and the cup rattled on the saucer as she set it back. “Believe me, Miss Stewart. You can’t even _begin_ to.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Monday 14 December 1942_

_I did try to stay awake last night in case Mrs C needed something but I’m afraid I went out like an absolute LIGHT about ten seconds after my head hit the pillow, so not at all as useful as I would have liked to be. She didn’t die in the night or anything tho’ - gosh how absolutely dreadful that would have been to have woken up next to a corpse like those stories old people tell about the Spanish Flu, not to mention awful for Mr F since it was his bed after all with him taking A’s. I was hardly up this morning when Miss P and two men turned up in a car and took Mrs C off still in A’s pajamas. They could have let her have tea at least I thought even if there is a war on and I think Mr F thought so too. He’s been very short all day. M said it was because we wasted all the planning last night at Fowler’s. We’re to try again tonight tho’ so it’s not MUCH of a waste. I think what happened made him think of A. I tried to say something about it but HE said that a man who’d been eaten out of house and home and not to mention sugar had a right to be less than cheerful, didn’t I think. I shall have to save some of my rations this week to pay him back which is an absolutely DIRE thought but fair’s fair even in wartime.   Not that I think he really cares about it but I can’t make Hitler surrender, can I._

At the rap on his office door, Foyle looked up. “Come in.”

 

Milner came in and shut the door behind him. “Sir,” he said. “I’ve heard from Fowler.”

 

“And?”

 

The sergeant smiled. “Nothing missing today. So their plans weren’t for last night, after all. Bit of luck.”

 

“ _Or_ they caught sight of us racing off and it put the wind up them,” Foyle pointed out.

 

“Yes, sir, that’s possible. But they’ll try again, I’m sure of it. They’ll have to - who-ever they’re dealing with is unlikely to be the sort to take no for an answer.” He paused. “I checked with the hospital, sir. The pilot is doing well. Looks like he’ll make it.”

 

“Well that’s good news, at any rate,” Foyle said.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Set for tonight?”

 

“Yes, sir, all set.”

 

Foyle nodded.

 

“Sir, are you sure …” Milner hesitated. “One of the constables could drive you.”

 

“Well, yes,” Foyle said. “But then we’d have to put one of the _other_ constables on duty making sure Sam didn’t come along to _help_ off her own bat, wouldn’t we?”

 

Milner laughed. “Yes, sir. And she’d probably give him the slip.”

 

“Likely,” Foyle said dryly. “Anything further on those forged ration books?”

 

“No, sir. I don’t think it’s a local racket. Only those three turned up and all three of them had family in Manchester.”

 

“Ri-ight, well, let them know up there what we think,” Foyle said.

 

“Yes, sir. And shall I tell Sam …?”

 

“Yep.”

 

Milner nodded, and limped to the door. He stopped, one hand on the doorknob. “She’s a bit quiet today, sir.”

 

“Only relatively,” Foyle said.

 

“But it’s not like her,” Milner said.

 

“We-ell, no it isn’t, but she _was_ up ‘till all hours and dunked in the river,” Foyle pointed out.

 

“Yes, sir. I’m - sorry I wasn’t able to be more help.”

 

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Foyle said.   “All came out alright, didn’t it?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Milner said.

 

“It would have been a sight more tricky if you hadn’t had the sense to follow when Sam raced off,” Foyle pointed out. “That was fairly substantial help, as it turned out.”

 

Milner smiled gratefully. “Yes, sir. I’ll tell Sam, sir.”

 

Foyle gazed at the door for a moment after it had closed behind his Sergeant. It was unsurprising that the man was still occasionally troubled by the limitations imposed by his injury. _Artificial leg or not, he’d have been in the river like a shot if he were first on the scene. Good thing Brooke’s driving isn’t a patch on Sam’s, all things considered._

 

Unsurprising, too, that Sam was ‘a bit quiet’ today. _Whole thing must have been rather unsettling - not that it affected her appetite._ His driver had blithely finished off his powdered eggs this morning before heading home to change. Between her and Andrew it was no surprise Foyle’s pre-war suits were looser than they had been.

 

 _Chickens_ , he thought, amused at the mental image of Sam distributing meal to a flock of clucking hens. _She’d probably manage to get them to line up and wait their turn._

 

The idea lifted the grim mood that had dogged him all day. He grabbed his hat and went to the door. “Sam?”

 

She jumped to her feet. “Yes, sir?”

 

“Had lunch?” he asked. “No? Come on, then.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Sunday 20 December 1942_

_Spent this afternoon whitewashing branches at the working bee for decorations. Really should have been finishing my gifts, or trying to, but I never was much of a needlewoman and I must say that the embroidered bookmark I tried to make for Mr F is so lumpy that I don’t see how he’ll get the book CLOSED which does rather defeat the point. P’raps he’d like a whitewashed wreathe instead._

_Mock goose and ‘cheerful vegetables’. I almost wish Mrs H would decide Henny Penny is never going to lay again and serve her up! Which is QUITE unkind of me poor HP is doing her best I’m sure. Daddy’s right: war does change people and not always for the better. Look at those cads stealing from Fowler’s yard. It’s ships for convoys of food they’re crippling by making off with metal! Still, Mr F will catch them soon altho’ it has been quite some time and last Friday they managed to make off with some lumber and scrap iron even though we were watching like absolute HAWKS. And it probably won’t be tomorrow since Mr F has one of those ghastly meetings that take forever._

_Waste of bloody time,_ Foyle thought as Sam pulled the car away from Horscham House. He chewed the inside of his cheek and turned his thoughts away from the Reconstruction Committee and toward the Fowler’s yard problem. _We can rule out the front gate, at any rate_ , he thought. _Which would be rather more useful if it wasn’t also the **only** gate. And the fence is completely secure. I suppose they could be passing things **over** but that would take a great number of men. **One** of them would have talked by now, or shown too much money in a bar._

“Sir,” Sam said, as the train station came into view. “Look.” The car was slowing as she spoke and he followed the direction of her gaze. “Isn’t that Mrs Chenard?”

 

It unquestionably was, _although what she’s doing sitting on her suitcase outside Hastings train station I can’t imagine_. Her face was still bandaged, but looked less swollen; her patched coat was of a pre-war cut, her scarf clearly home-made, and her sensible trousers like those many women were wearing these days.

 

“I wonder what she’s doing here,” Sam said, easing off still further on the accelerator.

 

“Something wrong with the car, Sam?” Foyle asked.

 

“No, sir. But it looks like Mrs Chenard’s waiting for the bus.”

 

“And?”

 

“And we passed it half-a-mile back pulled over with clouds of smoke billowing from the engine. So Mrs Chenard probably needs a lift, sir,” Sam said, stopping the car without waiting for permission.

 

“She very well might,” Foyle said, “but don’t you think if she wanted to run into us she’d have telephoned to arrange it?”

 

“Perhaps she forgot,” Sam suggested.

 

“O-or … _perhaps_ she has another good reason?”

 

“Gosh, sir, do you think she’s on some sort of mission? Here in Hastings? How exciting! Good thing you’re a policeman.” Sam opened the driver’s door and, sliding out, tossed over her shoulder: “It’s not at all suspicious for you to help complete strangers.”

 

“ _Sam -_ ”

 

Ignoring him, she strode around the front of the car and called out cheerfully: “Hello! Are you waiting for the bus by any chance?” When Jen nodded, Sam went on, “We thought you might be. I’m afraid it’s broken down just back there. And since we’re with the police -” She glanced back to the car as Foyle opened his own door and got out. “Well, Mr Foyle is, I’m his driver, but we thought we ought to offer you a lift, you’ll have an awfully long wait otherwise and it’s setting up to turn nasty. The weather, I mean.”

 

Foyle raised his hat, and Jen stood. “That’s kind of you, but I don’t want to inconvenience you -”

 

“No inconvenience!” Sam said, promptly appropriating Jen’s case. “We’re on our way back to town anyway.”

 

Jen made a discreet grab for her case, but Sam was already carrying it to the back of the car.

 

“ _Miss Stewart_ seems to have made up her mind,” Foyle said dryly, and opened the rear door. “I find it saves time to give in immediately.”

 

“I suppose I -” Jen said slowly, then: “Thank you. The wind is quite cold.”

 

As Sam put the suitcase in the boot, Jen limped to the car and climbed in. Foyle closed the door on her and took his own seat and a moment later Sam was back in the driver’s seat and pulling away from the kerb.

 

“This is a bit of luck!” Sam said. “Are you here on a secret mission or something? What should we call you?”

 

At the silence from the back seat Foyle turned, to see a look of blank panic on Jen’s face. She opened her mouth, then closed it again silently.

 

“Got your ration book?” he asked, and when she nodded and touched her coat pocket, he held out his hand. She put the book in it and Foyle flipped it open. “Mrs Jenny Pawley. A pleasure to meet you.”

 

Sam was frowning, and shot a quick glance sideways. Foyle gave her a tiny warning shake of the head, and offered the ration book back to ‘Mrs Pawley’.

 

Her hand shook as she took it. “And you, Mr - Foyle, was it? And Miss Stewart?”

 

“Yes,” he said. “Where are you staying?”

 

“With a friend,” she said quickly. “I wrote down the address …” More fumbling in pockets produced a slip of paper and she read off an address that Foyle realized he recognized.

 

“That’s unfortunate,” he said. “That street was hit last night. No reported fatalities, so your friend is probably alright, but definitely homeless.”

 

Foyle would have suspected that the address had been deliberately chosen that morning, but the shock in Jen’s face was genuine. _Doesn’t mean it **wasn’t** deliberately chosen, of course, by someone else. _He was suddenly enormously weary of Miss Pierce and her ilk, and the endless machinations that made it necessary to second-guess every event.

 

“I’ll find somewhere … something will turn up,” Jen said mechanically.

 

“Gosh, good luck!” Sam said. “Everywhere’s completely _bursting_.”

 

“Look,” Foyle said. “I have a son, he’s away, room’s empty. At least overnight and you can get the train back tomorrow if you decide not to stay.”

 

“There you are, Mrs, um, Pawley!” Sam said cheerfully. “Something turned up! Jolly good thing we stopped, isn’t it?”

 

“Just drive, Sam,” Foyle suggested.

 

“Right you are, sir,” Sam said, not in the least dented by his tone. “Pawley, that’s a _Cornish_ name, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes,” Jen said. “My family is from -”

 

“Coverack,” Foyle suggested when she stopped.

 

“Near there, yes,” she said.

 

“Smugglers?” Sam asked hopefully. “Wasn’t Cornwall absolutely _rife_ with smugglers and secret passages and hidden rooms and so on?”

 

“Mrs Pawley might be tired from her train trip?” Foyle suggested with a meaningful look at Sam.

 

“Right. Sorry,” Sam said. “I’ve just always wondered _why Cornwall_. I mean, _we’re_ actually closer to France. There must have been smuggling _here_ , too, but no-one _ever_ talks about it.”

 

“Bound to be a local history in the library,” Foyle said. He frowned, something about her remarks tugging at his attention. “You can run me down there once when we’ve dropped Mrs Pawley.”

 

It took only a few minutes to leave Jen at his house and drive to the library.  

 

“Sir, do you think Mrs _Pawley’s_ all right to be left on her own?” Sam asked, trotting up the library steps after Foyle. “She did seem a little, um.”

 

“We-ell,” Foyle said, holding the library door for her, “I don’t have a reason to _arrest_ her and I can’t exactly bring her on police business.”

 

“Is this police business, sir?” Sam asked. “I thought we were looking up the history of smuggling.”

 

He followed her inside. “Smuggling’s a crime, Sam.”

 

“Yes, sir, I know. But it’s rather an _old_ crime, isn’t it? Sort of hard to arrest people whose _grandchildren_ have died of old age.” She paused, and added uncertainly. “Isn’t it?”

 

“Limitation period _might_ have run out,” Foyle agreed. He led the way to the desk. “Excuse me, ah …?”

 

“Miss Griesen,” the middle-aged woman behind the desk supplied. Her accent was slight, but detectable.

 

“Miss Griesen. My name’s Foyle, I’m a policeman. I wondered if you had any books on the history of smuggling in the local area?”

 

“I am not sure,” Miss Griesen said. “I am new to this job, you know? If you would like to wait, I can look.”

 

Foyle nodded, and settled his hat on his head, leaning on the desk, as the librarian went to the card catalogue.

 

Sam clasped her hands behind her back and rocked back on her heels, then forward to her toes. “I _do_ think it’s just too bad of you, sir.”

 

“Sorry, Sam?” Foyle asked innocently.

 

“You’ve deduced something, haven’t you? It’s too bad of you not to tell me what it is.”

 

He pursed his lips. “Actually _you_ deduced something, Sam. So _you_ ought to be the one to tell _me_ what it is.”

 

Her brow furrowed, and her lips moved silently and Miss Griersen returned with four volumes and a couple of pamphlets. Foyle thanked her and pushed two of the books toward Sam. “You take those.”

 

“Yes, sir!” she said promptly, and opened the first. “Um, what am I looking for?”

 

“Maps,” Foyle said succinctly. He rifled pages as beside him Sam did the same.

 

After a moment she said: “I think there are _supposed_ to be some in here, sir. That is - there seem to be several pages missing, look.” She ran one gloved finger down the traces of paper left where pages had been cut away. “And on _this_ page it says ‘see figure two’. But there’s no figure two.”

 

“Good work, Sam,” Foyle said, and turned back to the librarian as Sam gave him a somewhat confused smile. “Who looked at this recently, Miss Griersen? Say, in the last four months?”

 

She shook her head. “No one.”

 

“No one at all?” Foyle asked.

 

“Well, the gentleman from the Home Guard, of course, this one and all the others. But no-one else.”

 

“Gentleman from the Home Guard?” Sam echoed. “But why?”

 

“The maps, of course,” Miss Griersen said. “In case of - of the worst. All the maps had to be removed.”

 

“Got his name?” Foyle asked.

 

The librarian nodded, and took a small notebook from beneath the counter. “Standish. Neville Standish.”

 

“Bother,” Sam said, shoulders slumping. “And here I thought it was a clue.”

 

Foyle took her elbow and drew her towards the door as the librarian began to put away the books again. “We-ell, Sam,” he said quietly, “might still be, hmm?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

  
 

_Monday 21 December 1942_

_I cracked the case! Altho’ it probably doesn’t ENTIRELY count since I still don’t know how I did it and Mr F is being his usual self and won’t tell me but I KNOW he knows now who did it and he said I was the one who worked it out. Which must have been quite clever of me and I have been absolutely RACKING my brains to see exactly how._

_Drove Mr F home and asked if he wanted me to come in again because of Mrs P (must remember! Too dreadful if I make a mistake!) but he said not and sometimes I should Watch The Wall. Well I know that but Mrs P seemed like she might be sickening for something which I said to Mr F but he said it was more likely she was getting over something. Which of course is quite screamingly obvious when one thinks and perhaps Mr F is right when he says I should think more and say less or at the very least think FIRST._

_Had an encouraging talk to HP. Hope it worked._

 

Foyle closed his front door behind him, short of a slam but carefully loud enough to alert any other occupant to his entry. He hung up his coat and hat and looked in the sitting room.

 

 _Empty._ He glanced at the mail on his desk, noted that a fire had been laid but not lit, and stooped to brush away a little soot that had fallen onto the hearth. The dining room, the kitchen, were also empty.

 

He cleared his throat. “Mrs Pawley?” It occurred to him she might have left, occurred to him also that he should perhaps view the prospect as a relief. Her purpose, and her problems, would remain her own: he could dismiss the unpleasant prospect of a further entanglement in the schemes of Miss Pierce.

 

But even as the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it. Hastings was his responsibility, after all, and he could not in good conscience welcome ignorance.

 

The back bedroom was as empty as the other rooms but Jen’s suitcase was set neatly by the bed. He went back to the kitchen and looked out the window to see her standing in the narrow garden, arms folded tightly against the early evening chill, face lifted to the sky.

 

She turned when Foyle tapped on the window and raised a hand in acknowledgment. As she began to move toward the back door he set the kettle to boil and then went to the living room to touch a light to the fire.

 

When he looked up she was leaning against the door-frame, hands in her pockets. “Tea?” he asked, rising.

 

“Thank you,” she said. “I could make it.”

 

“Not at all,” Foyle said politely.

 

“I registered at your grocer while you were out,” she said, moving aside a little to let him pass. “I think I found the right place for everything.”

 

Foyle glanced into the pantry as he took down the tea cannister, and noted that she had bought a whole week’s rations, or close to it.

 

“They had oranges,” Jen said. “But only for children and women _enceinte_.” She smiled. “I was tempted to ‘plead my belly’ but _c’est peut-être un crime_.”

 

“No perhaps about it,” Foyle said. He poured the hot water into the tea pot. “I’d hate to arrest you.” Unspoken _But I will, if the law requires._

 

Her wry smile told him she had understood. “It is different, in France.” Unasked, she took out teacups and saucers. “There is even less. The government has had to post notices that cats are not safe to put in stews.” The corner of her mouth quirked. “They did not mention pies, which may have been a mistake on their part. But the rations, they are not ours. It is _patriotique_ to disobey the law.”

 

“Not everyone obeys the law in England,” Foyle said. He indicated for her to take the teacups through the dining room with a motion of his head, and followed her with the teapot, the replenished sugar bowl and what was left of the Mills milk from the morning. “But guests of policemen probably should.” He poured the tea. “How long do you need to stay?”

 

Jen shrugged, an entirely Gallic gesture that involved hands, mouth and eyebrows as well as shoulders. “ _Il est incertain._ ”

 

He sipped his tea. “How are you? I was surprised to see you traveling so soon, and alone.”

 

She touched the bandage on her cheek lightly, with one finger. “As you see, mending.”

 

“And your other injuries?” Foyle asked quietly.

 

Her gaze flicked to his, then to the fire. “Your Miss Stewart,” she said after a pause.

 

“She told me, yes,” Foyle said. “She was concerned, _I_ was concerned, it was perfectly clear that you’d been through more than a crash landing. Just as it’s perfectly clear _now_ that you’re … _nowhere_ near recovered.”

 

“I have been medically cleared, Mr Foyle.” Jen raised her cup, but did not drink.

 

“You forgot your cover story,” he said bluntly. “I admit, I don’t know you very well, but on the basis of our … _limited_ previous acquaintance, I would say that’s very unlike you. Isn’t it?”

 

She set the cup down, untasted. “I would only need one if I were working.”

 

“But you _are_ working. The grocer wasn’t the only place you went this afternoon, was it? You made sure to get the names of the police officers and Home Guard who were at the crash site and guarded it afterward from Milner at the station this afternoon; you got the home addresses for at least three of them from him and from Sergeant Brooke; and you searched this house.”

 

Her silence was an admission, and he went on: “There was something on the plane, I’d say something quite _small_ , easy to fit in a pocket, easy for someone to _take_ , that wasn’t there when Miss Pierce’s people got there the next morning. A locket, wasn’t it? That’s what you asked about. Something that should have survived the fire if it were on the plane, something that you’ll recognize but which isn’t distinctive enough to describe precisely to someone else, which is why they’ve sent _you_ , and something quite important, if they’ve sent you here to recover it when you’re obviously less than fit for the job. How am I doing?”

 

Jen was silent, studying her cup, and Foyle felt a stab of remorse. He’d enjoyed fencing with her at Ashingdon, but this wasn’t fencing. It was an interrogation, and he couldn’t help feeling it put him in the same class as the man or men who’d left those small, round burns Sam had seen.

 

Deliberately, he set it aside. “What are you planning? To sneak out after curfew for a spot of burglary?”

 

“Unsubtle,” Jen said. “Miss Pierce would not approve.

 

“Well, that’s a relief.”

 

She smiled, warm and entirely false. “You don't fancy the DCS’s house being used as a base for a crime spree?”

 

Foyle set his empty cup down with a _click_. “I don’t fancy the idea of you trying to climb through windows or up drain pipes when you’re obviously not fit for it. Mrs Chenard - Mrs Pawley - _Jennifer_.” He leaned forward. “I understand that you’re bound by the Official Secrets Act. I don’t need to know what it is you’re trying to find, or what it means, or why it’s important. But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me _something_.”

 

“ _Help_ me,” Jen said. The smile was gone as if it had never been, her voice cold and hard as a frost-rimed road.

 

“Help you. We _are_ on the same side.”

 

Her gaze flickered at that, a slight hint of disbelief that she was not quite quick enough to hide. Foyle sighed inwardly, and wished for something stronger than tea. _C’est la guerre._

 

“You’re not back yet, are you?” he said quietly. “This is an English town, you’re drinking tea with an English policeman. But you won’t touch the tea in case I’ve put something in it. And you’ve been waiting since you sat down for me to bring out the thumbscrews, haven’t you?”

 

Bright and brittle. “They preferred pliers, actually.”

 

“Yes well I _don’t_ , thank you very much,” he said acerbically.  

 

For a long moment he thought she’d say nothing, and then, soft and heartfelt. “ _Je suis desolee,_ _Kriminaldirektor Foyle._ ” Then her hand flew to her mouth as she heard what she’d said.

 

“As am I,” Foyle told her. “Look. You did trust me, once, d’you remember?” He set down his cup and stood, crossing to his desk. The small tin box was where he remembered, tucked at the very back of the middle drawer. He took it out and weighed it in his hand a moment, then offered it to her. “Haven’t read them, haven’t looked at the addresses either. You can probably have them back, now, hmm?”

 

She took the box and turned it over and over in her hands, then set it on the table and pushed it away with one finger. “If I had wanted these back,” she said, “I would have taken them when I found them earlier. They are safe enough with you.” She glanced up at him. “How did you know?”

 

“You missed some soot on the hearth when you cleaned up after searching up the chimney,” Foyle said, and she hissed softly with disgust at herself. “As I said. You’re off your game.”

 

“I …” Her voice trailed away to silence, and for a moment she sat tracing the rim of her teacup with her forefinger, then middle finger, then ring. Foyle took his seat opposite her again and watched.

 

She worked her way through to her little finger and back again twice, and then she looked up to meet his gaze and, without looking away, lifted the cup and drained it dry.

 

“My maiden name _was_ Pawley,” she said. “The Pawleys of Housel Bay.”

 

“Thank you,” Foyle said quietly.

 

“It _is_ a locket.” She held up finger and thumb, less than an inch apart. “It was around my neck when we took off. It was not, when I reached Hastings Police Station. In between … my memory is unclear.”

 

“So it could have come off in the aeroplane?”

 

“ _Peut-être,_ but I had put it inside my blouse, and the coveralls over.” Jen shrugged. “I think very much that someone must have taken it. It would have looked valuable enough, even if its true value was not understood.”

 

“Milner would never do such a thing,” Foyle said. “I’d be _very_ surprised if Brooke could. Sam might have taken it if she thought it was in danger of falling off, and god knows she’s quite capable of putting it in a pocket and forgetting about it but _that’s_ easily checked. And I hope you’ve satisfied yourself that _I_ don’t have it?”

 

She raised an eyebrow. “I have searched your house. _Je n'ai pas cherché votre corps._ ” Her mischievous smile was what Foyle, and many another young man of the Great War, would always think of as ‘entirely French’.

 

He let her see his amusement at her attempt to unsettle and embarrass him, and said mildly: “Steady on, Miss Pawley. Even in wartime a chap expects at least a bunch of flowers, you know.”

 

Jen’s eyes widened, and then she began to laugh helplessly, covering her face with her hands.

 

Her breath hitched; the sounds changed; tears spilled between her fingers.

 

Quietly, Foyle picked up the teapot and took it to the kitchen. He would give her whatever help he could in her search for the missing locket; for now, the most he could give her was a little privacy to recover her composure.

 

 _A small enough grace,_ he thought, contemplating the pantry and then the stove. _But in times like these, even small graces can be hard to come by._

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

_Tuesday 22 December 1942_

_… and I’m sure you can put the enclosed to good use in the officer’s mess. We continue to muddle along here with as much good cheer as circumstances, and the Ministry of Food, allow. Sam’s fine - no thanks to you! - and encouraging me to begin keeping chickens. I thought your room would make a suitable coop, don’t you? since you seem to have flown it, so do make sure to give me some warning if your leave comes through. I needn’t add how welcome that would be …_

“Oh, this is hopeless!” Sam spoke aloud, although there were only birds and a mildly inquisitive cow to hear her. She sloshed another few steps through the river, Mr Foyle’s borrowed-without-permission waders flapping around her legs. In her imagination, the river bottom had been a clear bed of pebbles against which Mrs Pawley-Chenard’s missing locket would stand out sharply before she bent to scoop it up, returning in triumph to pick up Mr Foyle from the Reconstruction Committee meeting with it worn casually around her neck.

 

_Although perhaps that wouldn’t be very secret._

 

She edited the mental picture to show herself producing the locket from a pocket in the privacy of the car, then looked down at her feet, or at least at the cloud of mud obscuring them, and sighed.   _The only way to find something in this would be to dredge the entire bally river. And I didn’t bring a sieve or a bucket or **anything**. And -_

_And oh golly the time!_

 

Wading back to the bank, she hurried up the hill to the car. After a quick look around to make sure she was unobserved except by the cow _which I’m sure has seen worse,_ she tugged off the waders, shucked the whitewash-splashed trousers that comprised pretty much her entire stock of not-good-clothes, and wriggled into her skirt. She shoved her feet into her shoes, bundled waders and trousers into the boot, and dived into the driver’s seat.

 

When she pulled into the drive to Horscham House, she could see Mr Foyle on the front steps talking to Mr Standish. _Bother bother botheration!_ She’d _promised_ she wouldn’t be late when pleading the inclement weather as a reason to head to a teashop instead of waiting in the car for Mr Foyle. _Plurry heck!_

She managed not to compound the offense by spraying gravel as she pulled up, and leapt out. Mr Foyle gave her the look that she always thought of as “Raised Eyebrow number four”, which silently conveyed that her misdemeanor had been noted and filed for later action and said a few more words to Standish. Sam plastered a look of determined innocence on her face and stood waiting until the conversation ended and Mr Foyle came down the steps to the car.

 

“Nice tea?” he asked, getting in.

 

“Oh, yes, sir, very,” Sam said, making herself very busy starting the car and praying that her stomach wouldn’t give a betraying grumble.

 

“Mmmhmm,” Mr Foyle said, and looked out the window in silence for a while. From the corner of her eye, Sam could see him furiously chewing the inside of his cheek. He took off his hat, looked inside it as if searching for something, and settled it back, then turned a little to look at her, arm resting along the back of the seat. “Look, Sam, none of my business, _of course_ , completely understandable given the state of things, but ‘your own time’ and ‘police time’ _have_ to be two different things.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Sam said meekly, relieved he was letting her off lightly. “How did you …?”

 

“Shoes are untied, skirt’s backwards.” Mr Foyle said shortly.

 

“Oh!” Sam said.

 

“And I do hope you’re taking care,” Mr Foyle said rapidly, almost under his breath. For some reason he seemed to be blushing.

 

“Oh, yes, sir, they were _quite_ sturdy enough,” Sam assured him.

 

Mr Foyle muttered something which sounded a lot like _Good God!_ and pulled his hat further down on his forehead.

 

“Awfully hard to get these days of course,” she went on. “It is absolutely champion of you not to mind me borrowing them.”

 

Mr Foyle’s eyebrows just about disappeared into his hat. “ _Borrowing_ \- Miss Stewart, _what_ are you talking about?”

 

“Your waders, sir,” Sam said. “I promise I’ll clean all the mud off them.”

 

There was a small silence. At length Mr Foyle said quietly: “Just where have you been, exactly?”

 

Sam frowned. “At the river, sir, of course. I thought perhaps the locket might have come off when I was pulling Mrs Pawley out, and be in the water.”

 

“I … _see._ ”

 

“What did you …?”

 

“Really doesn’t matter,” Mr Foyle said rapidly. “Glad I was wrong. Find anything?”

 

Sam sighed. “No. It was _far_ too muddy. I suppose it was a long shot anyway.”

 

“We-ell, it was a good thought,” Mr Foyle said, quite kindly.

 

“Did Milner or Brookie see anything?” Sam asked, and as Mr Foyle opened his mouth, added quickly: “And don’t tell me to ‘watch the wall’, sir, _please_.”

 

“They didn’t,” Mr Foyle said. “And I think we can dismiss the idea of it still having been in the aeroplane, it’s been carted off and no doubt searched thoroughly.”

 

“It could have been sort of _blown out_ ,” Sam said. “In the explosion, like shrapnel. It could be _miles_ away, sir! Well, not _miles_ , but a fair way.”

 

“It _could_ ,” Mr Foyle said.

 

“We’ll never find it if that’s the case. It’ll turn up simply years from now inside a cow or something.” She made the turn into the High Street. “Or a chicken.”

 

“I, ah, think we’d better assume it isn’t inside a chicken, Sam,” Mr Foyle said.

 

“Yes, sir.” She brought the car to a stop at the station. “Here we are!”

 

He put his hand on the handle of the door, but didn’t open it. “Just take me through what you remember again.”

 

“Well.” She closed her eyes, seeing the scene again. “I stopped the car about a yard short of the bridge and you got out. The plane was at least a car length and maybe more upstream from the bridge. It was still all closed up. I opened the hatch and we saw the airman and you climbed up. That was awfully brave of you, sir. I was quite petrified!”

 

Mr Foyle made one of his non-committal noises, and Sam hurried on. “I think if anything had fallen out of the hatch at that point I would have noticed. You came back with - well, it turned out to be Mrs Chenard, but I didn’t realize that. I sort of _floated_ her to the bank -”

 

“Did you notice anything tearing or pulling when she was lifted down from the plane?” Mr Foyle asked.

 

“No, sir, in fact I almost dropped her, you let her down faster than I expected. I think if her clothes or perhaps the locket chain had been caught on something I would have felt it.”

 

“All right,” Mr Foyle said. “And then?”

 

“I pulled her away from the water and put her on her side and came back down to help _you_ , sir.” Sam said. She almost shivered at the memory of the dark bulk of the wreck, hatch showing flickering flames, her own headlong rush down the bank and back into the water, the current and the mud seeming almost alive, conspiring to slow her, to keep her from reaching Mr Foyle in time … _Get hold of yourself, silly gel_ , she told herself firmly. _Nothing bad happened and it’s all over now_.

 

“Who was there?”

 

“I’m not really quite sure, sir,” Sam had to admit. “ I know _someone_ was because I could see them in the water. And Milner was there.”

 

“Sure?”

 

“I heard him shout … something.” _Sam, no! Stop!_ “I’m sorry I can’t be more help, sir.”

 

“Not at all, you’ve been quite a lot of help,” Mr Foyle said, and opened his door.

 

She leaned across the seat as he got out. “I have? How?”

 

Mr Foyle didn’t hear her, heading into the station without pause. Sam sighed. _He can hear a pin drop five streets away if the pin happens to be a hairpin dropped by a girl trying to get a wave on her lunch break_ , she thought, _and then he’s deaf as a post when I speak straight to him sometimes._

She got out of the car and opened the bonnet to remove the distributor cap and immobilize it, as per regulations. _Probably something to do with all that shelling in the last war. Bound to do **something** funny to the old ears._

She was halfway to the door when _her_ ears picked up the warning wail of the air-raid siren.

  _  
_

Sam clutched the distributor cap to her chest and hurried into the station. _I will not run_ , she thought. _I will not run, I am not afraid, I will not run._ She could hear the plane engines now. _It’s only bloody Jerry and I refuse to run away from those beastly cowards sitting up there in the clouds pressing buttons to kill innocent people. I will walk, quickly, all right, that’s only sensible, to walk quickly -_

 

Somewhere above her, something deadly whistled in its fall.

 

Sam ran.

 

She dashed past Mr Foyle at the cellar door, feeling his hand brush the small of her back as he ushered her through the door as they were hastening into tea-room to escape a sudden shower rather than hurrying to avoid an altogether different kind of rain. Then the door was closed behind them and he was following her down the stairs.

 

Someone had lit the lantern. She made her way to an empty chair and sat as, rather too close for comfort, something hit and exploded.

 

“All right?” Mr Foyle asked her.

 

“Right as rain, sir,” Sam said firmly. “I hope Jerry knocks off soon though, I was really looking forward to a cup of tea.”

 

The corners of Mr Foyle’s mouth turned down in his particular smile. “I’m sure if the Germans had known, they would have flown straight over.”

 

“I should hope so, sir!” Sam said in her best _vicar’s daughter_ voice. “Some things ought not to be trifled with.”

 

There were no more near misses, but it felt to Sam like absolutely hours until the ‘all clear’ sounded. _Finally_ they were able to climb back up out the cellar and survey the damage.

 

Something had gone off close enough to knock the pictures crooked, but, Sam was relieved to see, there was no real damage and the tea hadn’t spilled. “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I, sir?” she asked hopefully and did so without waiting for permission. _After all_ , she thought, _it’s not just **me**. I’m sure **everyone** could do with a cuppa. _

She made sure everyone had one, and then carried her own and Mr Foyle’s into his office. “Here you are, sir,” she said cheerfully.

 

Mr Foyle was frowning at his telephone. “Thanks, Sam,” he said absently.

 

She sat down and sipped her tea with disgusting treacle. “Everything all right, sir?”

 

“Yes,” he said, and then, “We-ell. Probably.”

 

Sam sipped, and made a listening noise.

 

“I can’t get through to my house,” he said abruptly. “Lines are probably just down. No reports of damage in the area.”

 

“Right,” Sam said, finished her tea, and stood up. “Would you like me to go and check on Mrs Pawley, sir?”

 

“If you wouldn’t mind, that would be very good of you, Sam,” Mr Foyle said.

 

“Don’t mind at all, sir!” she assured him. “Don’t forget your tea!”

 

She was _slightly_ delayed by having to work out where she’d left the distributer cap - _in the cellar, of course!-_ and it was fully dark by the time she was working her way cautiously through the blacked-out streets by the dim headlamps that regulation allowed. _Still, not as bad as it could be_ , Sam told herself. None of the streets she needed to negotiate had been hit so there were no roadblocks or piles of rubble to detour around, and she knew the way quite well.

 

Mr Foyle’s house was dark, as of course it should be. Sam parked the car and trotted up the steps. She peered through the mail-flap and saw the dim glow of a lamp, straightened up and knocked. “Mrs Pawley? It’s Sam Stewart, Mr Foyle’s driver.”

 

Quiet footsteps, and the door opened onto darkness, Mrs Chenard-Pawley a pale shape in the shadows. “Is everything all right?”

 

“Perfectly,” Sam said, stepping through the door. “Shall I hold this open until you find the lamp again?”

 

“I know where it is,” Mrs Chenard-Pawley said, and moved away, avoiding the furniture as if she were in her own living room and not a strange house. _She probably memorized where everything is in case of a gun fight or something,_ Sam thought.

 

The lamp illuminated the room with a faint glow, making the other woman’s hair seem very dark and gilding the edge of the bandage on her cheek.

 

“The phone line seems to have been hit,” Sam said. “Mr Foyle asked me to make sure you were all right.”

 

“There was no damage here,” the other woman said.

 

“Yes, but are you _all right_?” Sam asked. “I could make you some tea, if you like. Or take you to the station, if you’d rather be somewhere with people. I have the car.”

 

Mrs Chenard-Pawley sounded faintly amused. “I am entirely all right, _merci_. But tea seems appropriate. I will make it, and you will join me?”

 

“Rather,” Sam said. She tagged along into the kitchen and watched as Mrs Chenard-Pawley put the kettle on. “I’m frightfully sorry, but we haven’t found your locket.”

 

There was a most peculiar moment of stillness. Mrs Chenard-Pawley half-turned, and looked over her shoulder at Sam, the full kettle in her hand, and Sam found herself taking a step backward. The door-jamb fetched her up, solid against her back, but she rather felt as if, had it not been there, she would have taken a second step, and perhaps a third. _Mr Foyle knows I’m here_ , she wanted to say.

 

Then Mrs Chenard-Pawley smiled, and put the kettle on the stove. “Of course. Your Mr Foyle said he would ask you if you might have picked it up, to keep it safe.” She took down the teapot. “I should not be surprised that he had to tell you what it was, to ask you if you had seen it.”

 

“I haven’t told anyone,” Sam assured her. “Mr Foyle said it was absolutely top-totally-secret.” She sighed. “I wish I _had_ picked it up and forgotten I’d done it. But I didn’t. And I’ve looked _everywhere_ , even in the river.”

 

“And the others?” Mrs Chenard-Pawley - _oh bother_ , Sam thought, _I’ll just think of her as Jenny -_ asked.

 

By the time the tea was made, and drunk, Sam had told Jenny as much as she knew. Jenny listened intently, and asked the occasional question, many of them the same ones Mr Foyle had asked - who had arrived when and where they’d been when Sam saw them.

 

“And this ‘Milner’,” she asked when Sam had finished. “Your Mr Foyle seemed quite sure he was above suspicion.”

 

“What, Milner? I should jolly well think so,” Sam said. “He’s a war hero, you know. Trondheim.”

 

“War can change people,” Jenny said softly.

 

“Well I don’t know what Milner was like _before_ the war,” Sam said firmly, “but he wouldn’t take a biscuit from the station kitchen he wasn’t entitled to _now_. I’m quite sure of it. Nor would Brookie.”

 

“And Brooke didn’t have the opportunity,” Jenny pointed out. “If your memory is accurate, he was already in the water when you left me and was with the pilot and Standish and Milner from then on.”

 

“With Milner, anyway,” Sam said. “Standish was the one who had the torch so we recognized you.”

 

“But you saw him, Standish, with the others after he got out of the river with Brooke and the pilot,” Jenny said.

 

“You know,” Sam said, “I’m not altogether sure I _did_. I saw him with the others after _I_ got out of the river with Mr Foyle. But I didn’t see him the _whole_ time.”

 

“What do you know about him?”

 

“Standish? Not much. I think he’s some sort of local businessman. Fought in the last war, joined the Home Guard in this one, he’s on the Reconstruction Committee with Mr Foyle.” Sam paused. “I say, you don’t think he’s a German spy, do you?”

 

Jenny picked up the tea cups and carried them to the sink. “I think,” she said, “that I would not like to be a German spy in Hastings with Mr Foyle around.”

 

“Golly, _rather_ ,” Sam said.

 

“But it is possible, of course, that the Germans don’t know his reputation,” Jenny said. “This Standish, though … perhaps, perhaps not. The bombs falling, he’ll be busy now, won’t he?”

 

“Well, maybe,” Sam said. “It’s more the firemen and the wardens.”

 

“Hmm,” Jenny said. She leaned against the counter, arms folded, brow furrowed in thought. Sam thought she looked rather like she belonged in a flick, _one of the gangster ones_ , _just about the third reel after the second-last shootout_. “You said you had a car?”

 

“Yes,” Sam said.

 

“Do you have a gun?”

 

Sam gaped at Jenny. “A gun? No! Why?”

 

“In case,” Jenny said calmly.

 

“I’m a _driver_ , Mrs Pawley. I _drive_ a policeman, they don’t give me a _gun_.” She paused. “Do _you_ have a gun?”

 

“Alas,” Jenny said. “I have one but I was careless. I didn’t check it before I left to come here and there is a fault in the mechanism.” She paused. “Do you have a rifle? Shotgun?”

 

“No!” Sam said. “My father is a _vicar_.” She collected herself. “Mrs Pawley, if guns are involved, I _really_ think we ought to tell Mr Foyle.”

 

“No,” Jenny said. “He already knows more than he should. As do you.”

 

“I see,” Sam said. She fidgeted in silence for a moment and then decided to take the bull by the horns. “I say, Mrs Pawley,” she said as casually as she could. “In the pictures when someone’s alone in a house with someone and the person with them says ‘You know more than you should’ it generally turns out not very well for the, um. Party of the first part as it were.”

 

Jenny let out a little gust of a laugh. “Don’t worry, Miss Stewart,” she said. “I’m not minded to kill you to guarantee your silence.”

 

“Oh, good,” Sam said, much relieved.

 

“Apart from the fact that you’ve done me several quite substantial favors,” Jenny said, “it does occur to me that if I harmed a hair of your head, I would have to move to darkest Africa and change my name and spend my life looking over my shoulder, and likely even then your Mr Foyle would make sure I ended my days dancing at the end of a rope.”

 

“Well, yes,” Sam said matter-of-factly. “But that wouldn’t do _me_ much good, would it?”

 

She felt rather than saw Jenny turn to face her in the shadows. “You have my word, Miss Stewart, I won’t hurt you.”

 

“Well, then,” Sam said. “You may as well call me Sam. Everyone does.”

 

“Sam,” Jenny said. “Jen.”

 

“ _Jen_ ,” Sam said. “I think if you knew Mr Foyle as well as I know Mr Foyle you’d realize that even if he knows more than he should he’s not likely to stop finding things out until he knows _all_ of them. And neither of us has a gun. I really think we ought to tell him. It will save _so_ much trouble in the long run.” Honesty forced her to admit. “Mostly for me.”

 

Jenny considered that, and then shrugged, the barest motion of her thin shoulders. “Try the telephone,” she suggested.

 

Lifting the receiver, Sam listened for a tone, and jiggled the cradle a few times when there was none. With a sigh, she replaced it, calling out “No good, I’m afraid. We’ll have to go to the station.”

 

 _“_ Jenny?” Sam went into the hall.

 

The front door was open. Jenny was gone.

 

None of the words Sam knew seemed strong enough.

 

She shut the door smartly before the escaping light could give clues to any stray Jerry pilot who might be overhead and stood leaning both hands on it. _Cripes. Plurry heck. Bother and blast and - and -_

_She’s gone after Mr Standish._

_Right. Pull yourself together and **think** , Sam. _

_I could catch her up, I **know**_ _where he lives and **she** doesn’t have a car._

_Oh, cripes!_

A quick look out the door reassured her. The car was still there: Jenny hadn’t stolen it.

 

_Right. So I could catch her up -_

_At the house of possibly a German spy with no-one knowing where we are._

That was, Sam was absolutely definitely _fairly_ certain, what Mr Foyle would describe as ‘a daft idea’.

 

_Mr Foyle!_

She jerked open the door, dashed to the car, dashed back to shut the door behind her, and ran to throw herself behind the wheel.

 

Sam drove as fast as she could, _given I can’t see a plurry thing_ , but the journey back to the station went with agonizing slowness. She was still streets away when a a red glow began to illuminate the road and buildings ahead and the next corner brought her into sight of a burning house, the fire-engine parked squarely across the road.

 

“Blast!” Sam cried aloud. She closed her eyes and checked her mental map of Hastings, complete with annotations of all the places she might need to go and the quickest ways between them. _Back-track two streets, left turn, around the block, around by Wilson’s, right at the hardware …._

 

 _Too long._ The gap between the truck and the houses was far too narrow for the car: Sam herself would have been lucky to squeeze through. Only a moment’s drive from the station, she might as well have been _miles_ away.

She got out and hurried towards the fire-fighters. “I say! Excuse me? Can you move the truck, please?”

 

“Bit busy at the moment, love,” one of them said, not taking his attention from the jet of water he was directing to the flames.

 

“It’s urgent. Police business!”

 

“This is urgent too,” he said.

 

“Yes,” Sam was forced to admit. “I can quite see that.”

 

“Better get back, now,” he advised.

 

Sam retreated back towards the car. A few neighbors had come out to watch and an elderly Home Guard volunteer was keeping them back from the flames, having particular difficulty with one smallish boy who’d apparently evaded his parents.

 

Inspiration struck like the proverbial bolt from the blue. Quickly, she crossed to the on-lookers and bent down to the boy. “Hello,” she said. “Where are your parents?”

 

“London,” he said succinctly.

 

“Well, who do you live with, then?” Sam asked. “And what’s your name?”

 

“Mick,” he said. He turned and pointed up the street. “Live there. With me ma’s brother. He’s Big Mick. I’m Little Mick.”

 

“Well, Little Mick, my name’s Sam, and I’m with the police.”

 

“Haven’t done nothing!” Mick interjected immediately. Looking at his expression of virtuous indignation, Sam suspected that wasn’t _entirely_ true. _But now is not the time to quibble!_

 

“I didn’t think you had,” she assured him. “I need your help. The _police_ need your help. Do you think you could wriggle through the gap at the back of the fire-truck, down there?”

 

“Course!” Mick said scornfully. “Easy.”

 

“Good. Do you know where the police station is from here?” When he nodded, she put her hands on his shoulders. “Now, listen, Mick, I have an urgent message that has to get to Mr Foyle at the police station, and I need you to take it. It’s very important. You’ll be like - like my deputy, in the flicks.”

 

“I don’t have a badge,” Mick pointed out. “Deputies have to have a badge.”

 

Quickly, Sam unpinned the insignia at her collar. “You can have this,” she said. “When Mr Foyle sees it, he’ll know _straight_ away that I sent you.” She pinned it to his shirt. “There. I officially deputize you. Now this is very important, Mick. Tell Mr Foyle that Mrs P has gone to Standish’s house and he must send help. Alright?”

 

He nodded confidently.

 

Sam made him repeat it twice to be sure he would remember. “All right, off you go! Quick as you can, Mick.”

 

“I’ll run _all_ the way,” Mick promised, saluted her, and darted down the street. Sam watched him wriggle past the engine and disappear.

 

Then she got back in the car. She had done all she could to alert Mr Foyle and Milner. She supposed that now she should back the car up the street until she could turn around, and drive the long way around to the station. Mr Foyle would have left by then, of course, if Mick was as good as his word. She would be stuck waiting at the station to find out what happened for simply _hours_ and be no use to anyone.

 

Sam consulted her mental map again. _It would actually take me less time to drive to Standish’s than to the station, once the detour is taken into account._

 

 _I could park up the road a bit and wait for the police cars,_ she thought. _Then at least I’d be there to drive Mr Foyle back._

 

_And it’s **just** possible I could get there before Jenny does. So I could tell her that Mr Foyle is on his way when she got there._

She scrutinized the decision from all angles. Mr Foyle would _probably_ have ordered her back to the station if he’d been able to, but then, for Mr Foyle to order her back to the station he’d have to be there, and if he’d been there, Sam was quite certain he’d have had her drive him to Standish’s. _So it clearly can’t be ‘daft’ for me to go there, can it._

 

Carefully, she reversed up the street until a junction gave her room to turn around, and set off through the darkened streets as fast as she dared.

  _  
_

As she left the close-set streets of the center of town, Sam dared speed up a little. The faint glow of the headlamps, dimmed to regulation wattage by the black-out fittings attached to them, barely showed the road ahead, but her memory of its twists and turns was clear, and at least here there was less risk of meeting another car or a stray pedestrian.

 

Intent on steering the car, she only gradually became aware of an orange glow on the horizon ahead. As Standish’s home came closer, Sam realized she was seeing the light of a fire. _Quite a big one, too_. It looked like the rear of the house was alight, and although the absence of fire-fighters made it clear it hadn’t been burning long, the flames crackled loudly.

 

_Golly, Jenny might be in there!_

Sam jolted over the last few yards of the road and flung herself out of the car. She dashed around the side of the house, casting about for a bucket or basin as she ran. _There must be a water-trough or a pump or **something** … _

As she rounded the corner she was relieved to see that the fire was not, as she had thought, the house burning, but a shed set some distance from it. The smell of petrol hung on the air and a man was beating at the flames with what seemed to be a sack or blanket.

 

 _Oh, cripes!_ If the fire was fueled by petrol, even finding a bucket and a pump wouldn’t help. Sam looked around frantically, and the sandbags stacked against the rear of the house caught her eye. _Solid burlap sacks, that’ll do!_

 

She seized one and began to rip at the end seam to empty the dirt inside out, and then stopped. _Sam Stewart, you are an idiot!_ Dragging the sandbag to the fire, she upended it onto the edge of the flames. Smothered, they went out. _Three or four more ought to do it._

 

A hand seized her arm. “What do you think you’re doing?” Neville Standish demanded angrily, shouting over the crackling roar of the flames.

 

Sam jerked herself free. “Putting out your fire,” she yelled back, grabbing another sandbag.

 

“Not with those!” he ordered.

 

“Don’t be silly, it’s the quickest way.” Sam ripped the bag open and began to drag it back to the fire. “I’ll help you fill them again when the fire’s out, if you like.”

 

“Stop!”

 

Standish lunged at her, grabbing the bag and trying to pull it from her grip. Sam was so surprised that she clutched on to it reflexively. Under the strain, the already-loosened seam tore all the way open, showering Sam’s feet with … _ball bearings? How rum!_

 

She stared down at them, glinting in the firelight. Metal was _far_ too valuable and scarce to be used to fill sandbags, of all things! And if Standish were collecting them for the salvage drive, why on earth store them like this? _The only reason to stick them in a sandbag would be …_

_To hide them._

 

 _Oh dear_.

 

_Pretend you didn’t just think that._

_Pretend you don’t know anything._

_Mr Foyle will be here soon._

_I hope._

 

Sam dropped the sack and shouted at Standish: “There’s petrol on that fire! We need _dirt_ , not scrap metal!” Without waiting for an answer she turned back to the pile of sandbags, feeling them to see which felt like dirt or sand and which _didn’t_.  

 

She’d fooled Standish, and he helped her. It took the two of them several more minutes to extinguish the last of the flames.

 

Without their crackle, the night was very still. Sam wiped her forehead with one gloved hand and settled her hat more firmly on her head. “Gosh, it was lucky I cam along!”

 

“Yes,” Standish said. “It’s Miss Stewart, isn’t it? Mr Foyle’s driver? Why, um, did you come along?”

 

“Oh,” Sam said as casually as she could, “well, um.” Her mind raced. “Mr Foyle sent me to give you a lift to the station, actually!”

 

“Why?”

 

“Oh, _I_ don’t know,” Sam said. She smiled at him, the expression feeling stiff and unnatural. “Mr Foyle never tells me anything, probably something to do with tonight’s raid, I expect.”

 

“He could have telephoned,” Standish said suspiciously.

 

“The line went out,” Sam said. She hoped the ring of conviction in her voice would convince him that all the rest of it was true, too. “Couldn’t get through. The car’s around the front - we should get going.”

 

“All right,” Standish said. “I’ll just get my coat.”

 

“It did seem rather urgent, sir,” Sam said, moving to get between him and the door to the house, wondering if Jenny was still inside.

 

“It might be urgent,” Standish said shortly, “but I’m damned if I’ll go gallivanting around the countryside in my shirtsleeves.” He stepped around her and opened the rear door to the house. “Come in and wash some of the soot off while I find it.”

 

“I’m quite alright,” Sam said quickly. “I’ll wait in the car!”

 

He turned back towards her, framed in the doorway, and Sam saw the pistol in his hand. “I said _come into the house_ , Miss Stewart.”

  

“You ought to be careful with that, sir,” Sam said firmly, not moving. “Pointing guns at people can be very dangerous.”

 

She didn’t _really_ think that he would apologize and put the gun down, and he didn’t. _Worth a try, though._

“I’m sorry, Miss Stewart,” Standish said. Sam thought that he didn’t sound particularly sorry. “You should have listened when I told you to leave those sacks alone. I can’t let you tell Foyle what you found.”

 

He raised the gun.

 

“I lied,” Sam said quickly. “Mr Foyle didn’t send me to collect you. I came here to meet _him_ \- he’s on his way. Be here any minute.”

 

Standish hesitated. “Then we’d better be going,” he said. “We’ll need your car - from the smell of that fire, who-ever lit it drained my tank to add fuel to the flames.”

 

“Don’t be silly,” Sam said. “You can’t get away from Mr Foyle, you know. You may as well give yourself up, without making things any worse for yourself.”

 

“Shut up!” Standish said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“I know Mr Foyle,” Sam said.

 

Standish grinned at her. “You don’t know _me_ ,” he said nastily. “And if you think I won’t shoot you and take the car, you’re wrong. Pick up that sack - no, _that_ one - and carry it to your car.” When Sam hesitated, he leveled the gun at her. “ _Now_ , Miss Stewart.”

 

“All right,” Sam said, doing so. “But if you think you’re going to get away with this, you’re quite wrong.”

 

“We’ll see,” Standish said.

 

At gunpoint, Sam loaded several sacks into the boot of the car as slowly as she dared.

 

Standish ordered her to get behind the wheel. She couldn’t help but notice that he’d picked up a shovel from the yard. _Oh, gosh_ , Sam thought. _Mr Foyle won’t have any idea where we’ve gone._ She pretended to stumble and steady herself on the bonnet, quickly wrenching the cover from the driver side headlamp before she straightened. _An un-blacked out car might not be much in the way of a trail of breadcrumbs_ , _but it’s better than nothing._

 

Standish got in the rear seat, and Sam was uncomfortably aware of the gun behind her.

 

“Where are we going?” she asked.

 

“Just drive,” Standish said. “I’ll tell you where to turn.”

 

Although it went against every instinct she had, Sam deliberately crunched the gears as she started the car. She planned to drive as slowly as she possibly could without making it obvious she was delaying, and that would be easier if Standish thought she was a bad driver.

 

_And surely **someone** will have to notice I’m breaking the blackout and report it!_

 

As she crept slowly along, following Standish’s directions, Sam thought she caught sight of something in the rear-view mirror, a flicker of moving darkness against the trees. At first she thought it was a car, and her heart leapt at the thought that Mr Foyle and Milner had caught them up, but when next she saw it, she realized it was too small to be a car. _More like a bicycle._

 

Strain as she might, she couldn’t make it out again. Who-ever it had been had turned off the road. _Or it was wishful thinking in the first place_.

 

 _No_ , Sam told herself firmly. _I’ve been in worse fixes than this. I was blown out of bed by Jerry, and locked in an office with a bomb. I didn’t imagine things then, and I’m not imagining them now._

_There **was** someone following. And they’re **bound**_ _to have seen the headlamp._

_And I’m **sure** they’ll tell Mr Foyle._

“Stop here,” Standish ordered.

 

Sam jammed her foot down on the brake in the hope the sudden stop would make Standish drop his gun, but the slow speed she had been driving at defeated the plan.

 

“Out,” Standish said. When she obeyed, he climbed out himself, and tossed the shovel at her. “Pick it up,” he instructed when Sam let it fall at her feet.

 

Swallowing hard, she did so. They were a fair way out of town, on the edge of a small wood. _In the woods at night, with a man with a gun, who’s brought a shovel with him._

_Mr Foyle, **do** please hurry._

Standish took her torch from the boot, and marched her a little way into the trees. The beam of the torch swung back and forth ahead of her, making the trunks of the trees seem to leap out at her and then vanish again into the general gloom. Sam kept her ears open for any sound that might indicate Standish tripping and falling, but he managed to keep his feet, albeit with the occasional oath.

 

“Stop here,” he said at last, and Sam stopped. “Dig.”

 

“Dig?” she asked, not moving. “What for?”

 

He motioned with the gun. “Because I told you to dig.”

 

“Look, you - you - you _beastly_ man,” Sam said. “If you’re going to shoot me and bury me in the woods I’m certainly not going to make it easy for you by doing all the work. If you want something dug, _you_ bally well dig it.” She planted the shovel in the ground and folded her arms defiantly. “And you’d better make it good and deep,” she added. “You’d be _amazed_ how many bodies turn up even when people think they’re safely hidden.”

 

“ _Dig_ ,” Standish said, motioning with the gun. Sam couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t deny that what she’d be digging was her own grave.

 

 _Oh golly_ , Sam thought. Continuing to defy him might be the _brave_ course of action, but there was no question that playing for time would be the _sensible_ one.

 

Moving as slowly as she dared, she picked up the shovel, and turned a small spadeful of earth, then another, and then paused as if needing to catch her breath.

 

“Hurry it up,” Standish said.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m not used to this,” Sam said. “If you wanted a hole dug, perhaps you should have kidnapped someone from the Land Army and not the MTC.” She dug another tiny shovelful of dirt up and tossed it aside. “You could just tie me up, you know,” she added helpfully. “No-one would find me before morning. And you’ll be where-ever you’re going _well_ before then.”

 

“How do you know where I’m going?” Standish asked suspiciously.

 

“It can’t be very far,” Sam said reasonably. “You’re obviously not worried about road blocks.”

 

“Sharp as a tack, aren’t you?” Standish said sourly. “Stop lollygagging and dig faster.”

 

“I’m digging as fast as I -” A bullet smacking into the ground at her feet made her swallow the last word in a yelp.

 

“The next one won’t miss.” Standish leveled the gun at her.

 

From the darkness beyond the reach of the torch’s beam came a low voice. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

 

Standish swung around, brandishing the gun and the torch. There was a rustling of leaves to one side of the clearing, then the other. Pebbles knocked against each other at yet another location.

 

“You’re surrounded,” the voice said. “Put down your weapon.”

 

Sam started to edge away. With an oath, Standish swung round and grabbed her, hauling her close to him and jamming the gun against her jaw.

 

“Show yourself!” he demanded. “Show yourself or I’ll blow her head off!”

 

“If you do that, they _will_ shoot you,” Sam said in as reasonable a tone as she could manage, given the circumstances. “It’s all over, Mr Standish, you must see that.”

 

“If it’s over for me, it’s over for you,” he retorted. “Nosy little baggage.”

 

The hammer of the pistol clicked back. Sam swallowed hard. _Mr Foyle will be **so** angry with me, _ she thought, and closed her eyes.

 

And opened them again as the voice from the darkness said: “All right. You’ve made your point. Men, hold your positions.”

 

There was a rustle of footsteps, and then Jenny stepped into the light.  

  

Sam realized she was gaping in astonishment, and closed her mouth quickly.

 

 ** _That’s_** _who I saw behind us on a bicycle_ , she thought. Of course Jenny must have ‘borrowed’ a bicycle after she’d left Mr Foyle’s house: even given the delay of Sam’s detour toward the station, Jenny could hardly have arrived much in advance of Sam if she’d been on foot.

 

_And **someone** started that fire, safely away from the house, doused with petrol to make it burn faster … _

 

“Who the hell are you?” Standish demanded.

 

Jenny walked slowly towards him, hands held out from her sides, open and empty. “My name is rather less important than the fact that I have come here with a dozen men who are _not_ members of the Hastings constabulary,” she said.

 

Standish backed a step away from her, dragging Sam with him. “Stay where you are!”

 

Jenny continued to come forward at the same steady pace as if he hadn’t spoken. “The police force is full of good men. They would arrest you, and try you, and allow you a lawyer, and give you the right of appeal.” In the torchlight her smile was wintry, the merest movement of her lips. “But the police are not here. _I_ am here. You have one more chance to let that girl go.” She was only a few yards away now. “One. Final. Chance.”

 

With an oath, Standish shoved Sam away from him, sending her sprawling, and leveled the gun at Jenny. “Tell your men to come out here,” he demanded.

 

Sam scrabbled to get her feet under her. Her hand touched something hard and regular in shape. _The shovel_. Without a clear idea of what she meant to do with it, she picked it up, and stood.

 

At her movement Standish turned back towards her.

 

Jenny lunged.

 

The torch fell and rolled, sending shadows spinning crazily. Jenny and Standish were indistinct figures locked in a parody of a waltz, both clutching the gun, as behind them against the trees their giant shadows struggled with each other. Sam raised the shovel but they were too close to each other to give her a clear swing. She saw Jenny hook a foot behind Standish’s leg and they both went down, Jenny on top. She let go of the gun with one hand and brought it back, fist clenched, but as she did so Standish gave a heave and rolled her over.

 

Then, quite suddenly, they seemed to vanish. Sam realized they had gone over the edge of the shallow pit she’d dug, and leapt forward, shovel still held high.

 

Standish got up, looking downward, and pointed the pistol at something by his feet.

 

“ _Stop_!” Sam shouted.

 

He spun toward her, raising the gun, and fired.

 

Sam saw a flash of light from the pistol’s barrel and heard the shockingly loud retort. A gust of wind knocked her hat from her head but she realized with some surprise that she was still alive, that Standish had missed her.

 

He cocked the pistol again. As he did so Sam saw a blur of movement in the shallow trench below him and he bent forward with a grunt.

 

She took a long step forward, braced her legs, and swung the shovel as if she were defending against a fast leg break bowled by Harold Larwood.

 

The blade of the shovel connected with Standish’s head with a dull crunching sound and a force that jarred it out of Sam’s hand.

 

He went down in a boneless heap and didn’t move, the pistol tumbling from his hand. Sam kicked it away, and raised the shovel again, in case Standish was shamming.

 

Past the ringing in her ears she could faintly hear someone calling her name, and through the trees the round white dots of torches came closer, bouncing up and down with the strides of those carrying them.

 

“Here!” Sam called, or thought she did. “We’re over here!”

 

Then Mr Foyle was there, hurrying towards her, Milner limping along at speed close behind him, and Brookie, and others.

 

“Do mind your step,” Sam said, “and look out for the grave.” She pointed. “And help Jenny.”

 

Mr Foyle stepped around the pit and shone his torch on her as Milner and Brooke stooped to lift Jenny from it. “Are you alright?” he asked.

 

Sam squinted, and put up one hand against the light, hearing Jenny telling Milner to be careful in a vocabulary not often heard away from the docks. “All present and correct, sir,” Sam said. “Awfully glad to see you.” She let the shovel drop to the ground. “Oh, and there are some armed men somewhere about. I think they’re friendly.”

 

“We didn’t see anyone,” Mr Foyle said. He gave his torch to a constable, took off his coat, and draped it around her shoulders, studying her quizzically. “Sure you’re all right?”

 

“Absolutely, sir. And they came with Jenny - Mrs Pawley,” Sam said. “A dozen, she said.”

 

At a gesture from Mr Foyle, a couple of the uniformed men spread out into the trees. “No-one here, sir,” one of them called.

 

“They _were_ there,” Sam said. “I heard them, all around. I wonder where they’ve gone.”

 

“You heard me,” Jenny said from where Brooke and Milner supported her between them. Her voice was taut with pain. “Branches, pebbles - an illusion.”

 

“Oh.” Sam felt rather foolish. “Well, I certainly believed you. I suppose Standish did too.”

 

“I planned to wait until the police arrived,” Jenny said, “and lead them to you. But - time became of the essence.” She smiled with white lips. “That was very good thinking, with the headlamp. It made you easy to follow.”

 

“I couldn’t think of anything else,” Sam said. She turned to Mr Foyle. “How did _you_ find us, sir?”

 

“Mrs Pawley blazed a tree at each crossroad,” Mr Foyle said. His mouth quirked. “We’ll have the countryside in an uproar about it tomorrow, of course.”

 

“Why?” Sam asked, as Jenny laughed.

 

“Because she used your initials,” Mr Foyle said. “S S.”

 

He bent and picked something up from the ground. Sam realized that it was her hat.

 

He turned it over in his hands and the torchlight shone through two small neat holes in its peak.

 

Sam saw the trees around the clearing began to spin slowly around behind him and the ground tilted up like the deck of a ship in a heaving sea. _Golly_ , Sam thought distantly, _I’m going to faint._

_That’s rather poor form._

 

Then Mr Foyle’s hand closed hard on her arm. “Better sit down, Sam,” he said, and obediently Sam let her legs give out.

 

“Frightfully sorry, sir,” she said as Mr Foyle lowered her to the ground.

 

“Not at all,” he said gently. “Perfectly understandable.”

 

She felt his hands on her head, fingers parting her hair. “Am I shot?”

 

“Not even scratched,” he reassured her. “Put your head between your knees.”

 

She did. “Is Mr Standish - ?”

 

“Still breathing,” Milner said from somewhere to her right.

 

“Oh well that’s good, then,” Sam said, feeling for some reason as if she might start to cry. She started to sit up but Mr Foyle’s hand on her shoulder kept her still. “Really, sir, I’m quite all right now.”

 

“Humor me,” he suggested. “For _once_.”

 

The hint of exasperation in his voice made her laugh, and the threat of tears receded. “Right-o, sir,” she said, and was proud to hear her own voice almost steady. “Just this once.”

 

The next little while was a bit of a _blur_. Standish was hauled off - Sam heard Milner say something about _hospital_ and _guard_. There was some sort of argument between Mr Foyle and Jenny about Standish’s house. Sam rather thought that Mr Foyle won it.

 

Then he was beside her again. “Up for a walk to the car, Sam?” he asked. “It’s not far.”

 

“Absolutely,” she said stoutly. “Right as rain.”

 

He helped her up, and Sam was surprised to find it really _wasn’t_ far, with Mr Foyle’s hand firm beneath her elbow and his torch lighting the ground ahead. “Where to, sir?” she asked, reaching for the driver’s side door.

 

He forestalled her. “Brooke will drive you home,” he said.

 

“What about you, sir?” she protested. “I’m perfectly able to drive you -”

 

“I don’t doubt it,” Mr Foyle said. “But it’s going to be a long night, and there’s no need for you to hang around. Not much use you falling asleep behind the wheel tomorrow, is there?”

 

“I suppose not,” Sam said reluctantly. “But -”

 

“Don’t worry,” Mr Foyle said, opening the rear door for her. “Nothing exciting is going to happen until morning.”

 

Sam let him hand her into the car. “That had better be the truth,” she said firmly, and ruined the effect with a jaw-cracking yawn.

 

“It’s a promise.” Mr Foyle shut the door on her, and Brookie started the engine with, in Sam’s opinion, altogether too much pressure on the accelerator.

 

She was in the middle of framing some tactful advice on the danger of flooding the engine when she fell quite suddenly asleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_Thursday 24 December 1942 Christmas Eve_

_Gosh it feels like yesterday was at least a WEEK long but this morning is not even Christmas yet and Mrs H is out looking at HP with a distinctly ASSESSING expression. Woke up this morning and couldn’t remember for a minute why I was lying on top of the covers in my clothes and Mr F’s coat and then DID and golly! Quite sure Mr F will let me know how utterly daft it was for me to go haring off last night but REALLY don’t see how I could be expected to know what was going to happen. And was perfectly all right until S started waving the gun. Not MY fault he was hiding stolen metal in his sandbags._

_Still quite unsettling to think what MIGHT have happened altho’ could probably have clobbered S with shovel even if J hadn’t been there. Was Biding My Time._

_Wonder if it might be a good idea to ask Mr F if I can have a gun. Not regulation of course but There Is A War On. Quite sure he’d give me Raised Eyebrow Three and say no, tho’._

_Shall ask M instead._

“Here we are, sir!” Sam said cheerfully, drawing the car to a stop at the front of Neville Standish’s house. The uniformed constable posted at the front door scrutinized the car, recognized Foyle, and relaxed his vigilance somewhat. “Shall I come in with you?”

 

“Ye-es,” Foyle said, “but not just yet.”

 

“Oh.” She turned in her seat to look at him. “How will I know when?”

 

“Well I rather thought you might come in when _I_ go in,” Foyle said, “and I’m not quite ready to do that yet, so …”

 

Sam smiled. “Roger,” she said cheerfully.

 

“How are you feeling, by the way?” Foyle asked.

 

“Tip-top, sir,” Sam said. “All I needed was a good night’s sleep.”

 

Studying her from the corner of his eye, Foyle judged that she was telling the truth. _The resilience of youth_.

 

 _And the armor of ignorance._ He himself was equipped with neither, and suspected that those moments between hearing the _crack_ of the pistol shot in the darkness of the woods and seeing Sam standing, unharmed, shovel raised above her head like Boadicea with a trenching tool, would be with him for some time to come.

 

“How’s Mr Standish, sir?” she asked.

 

“We-ell, he’s regained consciousness. We charged him this morning.” Foyle smiled. “Had quite a headache. You gave him a pretty good whack.”

 

“As hard as I could, sir,” Sam said. “I’m glad he’ll be alright, though.”

 

“Really?” Foyle turned to look at her.

 

“Yes,” she said firmly. “The courts are the right way to deal with men like that. Aren’t they?”

 

“They are,” Foyle assured her, although he doubted he would have been able to find much regret within himself if Sam had landed a fatal blow with that shovel. _Except for the fact that she would have taken a life, and would have had to live with that for the rest of **hers**. _

There was a small, and for Sam an unusual, silence. “Sir,” she said at last.

 

“Sam.”

 

“You haven’t told me how foolish I was last night.”

 

He turned to look at her. “Do you want me to?”

 

“I think I’d rather get it over with,” Sam said firmly. “If you don’t mind.”

 

“We-ell,” Foyle said, “you did _rather_ well up until you dashed into the yard of a thief and black-marketeer by yourself.”

 

“I didn’t _know_ he was a black-marketeer,” Sam said.

 

“You should have,” Foyle said.

 

Sam turned toward him. “ _How_ , sir?”

 

Foyle opened the car door as a police car turned the corner at the end of the road. “Tell you later,” he said, and got out.

 

Sergeant Brooke brought the car to a halt with a jerk and Foyle stepped forward to open the passenger side door.

 

Jen Pawley got out, moving carefully, her right arm strapped in a sling across her body. “Not broken,” she assured Sam at the young woman’s noise of concern. “Dislocated my shoulder.” She turned to Foyle. “Thank you for arranging the lift, Mr Foyle.”

 

“Not at all,” he said, and gestured towards the path leading to the front door of Standish’s home. “After you.”

 

Jen led the way to the front door. The constable saluted Foyle, and let them in, then closed the door behind them.

 

The interior of the house was dark and gloomy, furnished in heavy wood and dull fabrics. Sam strode to the window and briskly opened the blackout curtains, letting in the weak winter light.

 

“I searched down here,” Jen said quietly. “I had only just started upstairs when …” Her voice trailed away on the admission that she had abandoned what she, and no doubt Miss Pierce, must regard as an over-riding duty at the recognition of Sam’s peril.

 

Foyle studied the room, noting the squares in the dust of the mantelpiece where ornaments had recently been removed. He tugged open a drawer on the sideboard to see only a handful of silver cutlery, far less than a full set. Photographs of three young men, two in uniform, sat in cheap frames on the end table, two with clear indentations along the edges where they had once been in different, heavier frames.

 

“Did you find any maps?” he asked Jen.

 

She pointed to the bookcase. “Rolled up behind the books, second shelf. Nothing strategic - old maps of the local area, I thought.”

 

“Ri-ight,” Foyle said, and looked where she had indicated. There was indeed a roll of papers tucked away there. He took them out, moved through to the dining room, and unrolled them on the table, noting as he did so that most had one unfinished edge, as if they’d been cut off a larger piece of paper.

 

_Or cut out from a book._

 

“Notice anything, Sam?” he asked.

 

She came to stand by his side. “Are they the maps Mr Standish cut out from the library books?” she asked.

 

“Seems likely, doesn’t it.” Foyle said, studying them. In the other room, Jen was moving about quietly, no doubt searching again for her locket with good light and the opportunity to take her time.

 

Sam frowned. “I don’t see why,” she said. “They’re not at _all_ up to date. The town’s much bigger now and the streets are all changed. Jerry wouldn’t get very far using these!”

 

“No,” Foyle agreed. “Not the Home Guard’s responsibility to empty out the libraries of any potentially … _useful_ material, for that matter. And regulations call for books to be sent north, not vandalized.”*

 

“Then _why_ cut out all these maps?” Sam asked.

 

“I rather think he cut out _all_ of them to make it less obvious he was cutting out _one_ of them,” Foyle said. He leafed through the maps until he found what he was expecting, and spread that one out in front of Sam. It was a reproduction of what was clearly a very old map, and one drawn by someone for whom literacy was not a strong point. He pointed to a mark placed some miles away from the port, along the shoreline, and traced the dotted line that led from it to another, similar, mark perhaps a hundred yards inland.

 

“I’m not quite sure, sir,” Sam said slowly, “the scale’s not quite right. But isn’t that where Fowler’s yard is, nowadays?”

 

“I very much suspect it is,” Foyle said. “As you said, Sam. Hidden rooms …”

 

“And secret passages!” She beamed. “I say, I _did_ crack the case, didn’t I?”

 

Foyle pursed his lips. “ _If_ you did,” he pointed out, “then there’s absolutely no excuse for you haring off here on your own last night, is there. Since you … _knew_ Standish was involved in something a great deal more dangerous than the opportunistic theft of a necklace?”

 

“Oh.” She chewed her lip, and Foyle busied himself rolling up the maps so she wouldn’t see his amusement as she wrestled with the dilemma. “Well. But why, sir? He was a hero in the last war! He’s in the Home Guard! And if those pictures are of his sons, two of them are serving! Why would _he_ sabotage the war effort?”

 

“He was obviously very short of money,” Foyle said. “Sold a few items recently, including most of the silver.”

 

“That’s no excuse,” Sam said firmly.

 

“Two of his sons _were_ serving,” Jen said from the doorway. In her good hand she held a thick book. As she offered it to Foyle, he saw it was a Bible.

 

He opened it, already knowing from her delicate emphasis on the past tense what he would see, and turned to the family tree written carefully on the flyleaf. Generations of Standishes marched down the page, tiny dates indicating their births and deaths. “Adam Standish,” he read from the final line. “March fifteenth, 1919 to 3 June 1940. Matthew Standish, 22 April 1921 to 8 November, 1942. Michael Standish, 4 April 1925. Eighteen in a few more months.” He closed the book. “There are those who’ll sell a way out of serving, for enough money.”

 

“It’s very sad,” Sam said. “But it’s still no excuse.”

 

“No.” Foyle set the book on the table. “It’s no excuse.” He turned to Jen. “We’ve found what _I_ came here to look for. The locket may perhaps be upstairs? I’ve had the local fences and pawn-brokers checked, I doubt Standish has already sold it.”

 

They went upstairs, Sam leading the way. “I’ll look in here,” she said, opening the first door. It was a bedroom, with two single beds, and Foyle realized it had probably been shared by Standish’s two younger sons. _Until the war left this house, like so many others, unaccustomedly empty._

 

He doubted Standish would have hidden any stolen goods in his sons’ room. He opened the other doors off the upstairs hall instead, until he found what seemed to be Standish’s own.

 

Once Jen had followed him in, he closed the door quietly behind them.

 

Jen turned. An expression of calculation flitted across her face, quickly replaced with a flirtatious smile. “Why, Mr Foyle,” she said.

 

“Just wanted to ask you if you have any justification for your behavior last night?” he asked, tone mild. “Before I speak to Miss Pierce.”

 

“Justification for nearly getting myself killed saving your Miss Stewart?” she countered. A few steps took her to the window, and she tugged one-handed at the blackout curtains.

 

“For arson, attempted burglary, and … oh, theft of a bicycle?” Foyle said.

 

Jen turned so her back was to the window, the pale mid-winter light outlining her and casting her face into gloom. It was a cheap trick, and one which might have amused Foyle if he’d been in the mood to find anything amusing. “It was necessary.”

 

“It wasn’t, actually.” He tugged open a dresser drawer and surveyed the contents. “It was criminal. Which might very well be acceptable in enemy territory, but this _isn’t._ It was unacceptable for you to take matters into your own hands, it was unacceptable for you not to inform _me_ of your plans, and it was _completely_ unacceptable - not to mention unforgivable - for you to involve Miss Stewart.” He turned to face her, searching her shadowed face for expression. “ _Which_ you had no business to do in the first place but _certainly_ when you were very well aware you were not at your best and might not be able to protect her.”

 

“She involved _herself_ ,” Jen said. “Do you suggest I should have knocked her down and tied her up before I left your house? In case you’ve forgotten I spent the night in hospital with injuries from getting her out of the scrape she got _herself_ into, when I would have been in and out with no-one the wiser if she’d just stayed away.”

 

“You could have come to the station,” Foyle pointed out. “You could have waited for the telephone lines to be restored. You could have trusted that the police force had the resources and competence to deal with one venal would-be black-marketeer.”

 

“I didn’t know he was a black-marketeer,” Jen said.

 

“Well _I_ did,” Foyle said. “And if you’d given me the chance, I would have shared that information with you. Might have changed your plans _slightly_?”

 

Her silence was an admission.

 

“So _,”_ he said. “Any reason I shouldn’t arrest you?”

 

“Only the reasons you already know,” Jen said quietly.

 

“That you’re serving the nation in times of war and thus deserve special dispensation to commit crimes and flout the law? I’ve heard that one, thank you, didn’t convince me _that_ time either.” He looked around the room. “Quite a few people are serving their country at the moment, you _might’ve_ heard about it, law still applies to them. And to you.”

 

There was a gentle tapping at the door. “Sir?” Sam said.

 

“She’s tactfully giving us time to put our clothes back on,” Jen said with dry amusement.

 

“No,” Foyle said, moving to open the door, although he smiled at the thought of Sam’s face should she discover Jen and himself - _or anyone, really -_ in a state of _deshabille_. “The thought wouldn’t occur to her.”

 

“Or to you?” Jen asked.

 

Foyle paused, hand on the doorknob. “If that’s meant to persuade me not to charge you I’m afraid you’re quite well wide of the mark.” He opened the door. “Sam. Find anything?”

 

“No, sir,” she said, disappointed. “Not a sausage. How about in here?”

 

“Nothing so far,” Foyle said. “Where would _you_ hide something?”

 

“In a drawer?” Sam suggested. “Up the chimney, but there isn’t one. Under a loose floorboard?” She bent to study the floor. “I say, sir, do you know what’s odd? I haven’t seen a single picture of Mrs Standish anywhere in the house. There must _be_ one, a Mrs Standish I mean.”

 

“Unlikely Mr Standish produced three sons unaided,” Jen agreed.

 

“I imagine he doesn’t want to remember her,” Foyle said.

 

“Did she die?” Sam asked. “Golly, sir, do you suppose he took _her_ into the woods and shot her?”

 

“No, she didn’t die,” Foyle said. “You might know her as Mrs Leighton now.”

 

“With the flower shop, in the High Street?” Sam said.

 

“Yep.” Foyle lifted the mattress and looked beneath it.

 

“Gosh, I didn’t know she was a divorcee!” Sam said.

 

“Well she’s _not_ ,” Foyle said. “She and Mr Leighton live … without benefit of clergy, you might say.”

 

“That must have been _awfully_ awkward,” Sam said. “What with ration books, and household registration, and everything. None of these floorboards are loose, sir.” She stood up, and sneezed.   “Not terribly house-proud, was he?”

 

“No-o,” Foyle said thoughtfully. He squinted at the floor. “Open that curtain a little more, would you please?”

 

Sam did as he asked. “What is it, sir?”

 

“The floor in front of the dresser,” Foyle said, pointing. “Not at all dusty, see?”

 

Jen knelt down in front of the dresser and groped beneath it with her good hand.

 

“Let me,” Sam said, and Jen moved aside to give her room. Sam reached under the dresser, and then lay flat to get better access. “Definitely something here,” she said. “Sort of tucked up under - can’t quite reach.”

 

Foyle knelt beside her, taking a pencil from his pocket. “Try with this,” he suggested, offering it to her.

 

Sam took it, and tried again. “Nearly …” she said. “Just let me -” There was a tinkle of metal and she gave a cry of triumph. “Got it!”

 

Foyle heard Jen move suddenly, and just as quickly go completely still, as Sam wriggled backwards until she could pull her arm out from under the dresser, a thin chain looped over the pencil, a small oval locket dangling at the end. “Do be careful,” she said, voice completely expressionless.

 

Sam paused, the locket swaying gently, light sparking off the long links of the chain. “Is it going to explode?” she asked.

 

“No,” Jen said softly. “It’s just - it’s fragile.”

 

“Well that’s a relief,” Sam said robustly. “I’ve had rather enough of being blown up.”

 

Foyle glanced at Jenny, who knelt motionless, as if mesmerized by the slowly turning locket. When she made no move to take it, he took his handkerchief from his pocket and held it out. Sam gently lowered the locket onto it. It was an odd design, the front of the locket seeming to be composed of cogs or clock-workings overlapping each other, the chain made of long, slender, solid links that seemed to be steel rather than any precious metal.

 

“What is it, sir?” Sam asked quietly.

 

Foyle turned and offered the locket to Jen. “Mrs Pawley? Jen?”

 

She stretched out one trembling hand and touched the chain. “It was a mechanism,” she said, and paused to clear her throat. “Or part of one, part of a very valuable one. Disassembled and disguised like this by a jeweler working in hiding. Passed from hand to hand through occupied France until it was given to me by … by the brave men who made it possible for me to return here.”

 

“What sort of mechanism?” Sam asked curiously, studying it.

 

Jen laughed. “That,” she said, “is an enigma.” She tried to lift it from Foyle’s hand, fumbled.

 

“Allow me,” Foyle said. He wrapped the locket and chain carefully in the handkerchief. “Pocket?”

 

She nodded. “Thank you.”

 

He tucked it carefully in her pocket, then stood, and offered his hand to help her rise. Outside, in the distance, he could hear an approaching car. “Your lift,” he said, and when she raised an inquiring eyebrow, “I telephoned your friends this morning.”

 

“Then if you are going to arrest me,” Jen said, “you had better be quick about it.”

 

“We-ell,” Foyle said, “I think in this case a summons would suffice?”

 

“Sir!” Sam protested.

 

“I’m sure I’ll get around to the paperwork … _eventually_.” He held Jen’s gaze. “By the end of the war, I’d imagine.”

 

“I understand,” she said softly. “Thank you.” She touched his arm, so lightly he couldn’t feel the pressure of her fingers through the cloth of his sleeve. “You have been more of a gentleman than I have perhaps deserved.”

 

He raised his eyebrows, and said judiciously: “No perhaps about it.”

 

Jen laughed, and dropped her hand to the pocket that held the locket and its chain.

 

“I’d better not keep them waiting,” she said.

 

“Sir,” Sam said as Jen left the room, “should we go and wave her off?”

 

“Better not,” Foyle said. Footsteps receding down the stairs, the front door opening and closing: outside, the sound of voices, the door of a car.

 

“Oh,” Sam said, puzzled. “ _Why_ not?”

 

“Rather a limit to the number of copies of the Official Secrets Act I’d like to sign per war,” Foyle said. “I think we should both forget that locket, Sam.”

 

“But Mr Standish saw it,” Sam said. She went to the window. “There they go.”

 

“Mr Standish,” Foyle said, “is Miss Pierce’s problem. I suspect I’ll learn when we get back to the station that an officer of somewhat higher rank than myself has authorized the taking into custody of Mr Standish under 18B*. I’d prefer it if _we_ weren’t, hmmm?”

 

“Oh,” Sam said. “ _Rather_.”

 

They went downstairs, Foyle pausing to instruct the uniformed constables to collect the maps as evidence.

 

“Sorry to have you working on Christmas Eve,” he said to Sam as they reached the car.

 

“ _I_ don’t mind,” Sam said. “It’s not exactly very ding-dong-merrily this year, is it? Bit difficult to go caroling in the blackout and so on.” She paused. “And mock turkey is rather more ‘mock’ than ‘turkey’.”

 

“Mmm,” Foyle agreed, settling himself in his seat.

 

“I’m awfully afraid Mrs Henderson is going to serve us Penny,” Sam said, starting the car.

 

“Penny?” Foyle asked. “What’s that, something new from the Ministry of Food cookbook?”

 

“No, sir, _Henny_ Penny, one of her hens,” Sam said. “She hasn’t laid in _ages_.”

 

“Mrs Henderson names her hens?” Foyle asked, trying to make that fit with his limited acquaintance with Sam’s supremely practical landlady.

 

“Well, sir, _I_ rather named her. She comes when she’s called, you know. She’s quite intelligent.” Sam paused. “For a chicken.”

  
“At least you’ll have a decent Christmas dinner,” Foyle said.

 

“Yes, sir,” Sam said, far less cheerfully than he’d have expected, given the topic was food.

 

 

* * *

 

_Friday December 25 1942_

_It just isn’t fair to HP. The war is messing everyone about, chickens included._

_And it IS Christmas._

Foyle scooped the fish from the water with his net and waded back to the stream’s bank. _Three_ , he thought with satisfaction. _Not bad._

No word from Andrew, but that by no means meant his son would not put in an appearance, ravenous as always - _and there’ll be something better than mock turkey or mock goose for Christmas dinner if he does._

“Hello, sir! I thought I’d find you here. Merry Christmas!”

 

He laid the trout in his catch-bag and looked up to see Sam standing at the edge of the clearing, in trousers and a neat blouse instead of uniform. “Merry Christmas, Sam,” he said. “You’ve come from the station?”

 

“No, sir,” she said cheerfully. _A little too cheerfully, perhaps_. “No sudden outbreak of lawlessness that I’m aware of.”

 

“Ah.” He carefully retrieved and stowed his lure, and straightened. “So what brings you down here?”

 

“I thought you might like a lift,” she said, overly casual.

 

“Well, that’s very kind of you,” Foyle said.

 

“And I forgot to give you your Christmas present, yesterday.” She produced a small brown paper bag, and offered it to him.

 

Opening it, Foyle saw it contained sugar, and tea. “Thank you,” he said. “Much appreciated.”

 

“I did _rather_ owe you, sir,” Sam said.

 

“There really wasn’t any need,” Foyle said, putting the bag in his pocket and shouldering bag and rod.

 

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Sam said. “Of Christmas? Getting things you _need_ is always so ghastly. Socks and handkerchiefs and shoes for school.” She led the way back toward the car. “Of course, these days I’d be _thrilled_ to get socks and handkerchiefs and shoes. My father would say there’s a lesson in that.” Stopping a little way from the car, she put her hands in her pockets. “He’s probably telling his congregation at this very moment that starving children in China would be _delighted_ by mock goose.”

 

Foyle opened the rear door to deposit his gear in the car, and paused. There was a basket on the back seat. Through the wicker lattice he could see a bird’s bright eye regarding him suspiciously.

 

“Sam,” he said. The basket gave a quiet but distinctly indignant _cluck._

 

“I don’t know why, but the misfortune of others never seems to make one’s _own_ trials and tribulations any easier,” Sam said a little rapidly.

 

“ _Sam,”_ Foyle interrupted before she could go on any further into the thickets of theological debate. “ _Why_ is there a chicken in the car?”

 

“That’s Henny Penny,” Sam said. “She hasn’t laid in ages, sir, and Mrs Henderson swore she’d be dinner today if she didn’t produce at least one this week.”

 

“This is Mrs Henderson’s chicken?” When Sam nodded, Foyle asked: “And you have her because …?”

 

“ _Well_.” Sam said, and stopped.

 

Foyle raised his eyebrows. “Am I right in thinking Mrs Henderson is not … _aware_ of the _current_ location of her chicken?”

 

“Not _as such_ , sir,” Sam said.

 

He sighed. “Sam, you can’t go around stealing chickens!”

 

Sam stared at her feet. “Well, when you put it like that, sir, it sounds so …”

 

“Accurate?” Foyle suggested acerbically, putting his rod and bag in the car beside the chicken’s basket and closing the door.

 

“It’s not _her_ fault, sir,” Sam protested, “it’s the bombs. It would put anyone off, let alone a chicken.”

 

“That’s as may be,” Foyle said, regarding her over the roof of the car, “but you’re stealing food and you’re using a police vehicle to do it. Do you _really_ not see what an … _impossible_ position that puts me in?”

 

“I’m sorry sir,” Sam said. “I ought to take her back, I suppose.”

 

“Yes you really ought,” Foyle said. “Honestly I sometime wonder if you’re ever going to learn to think before you do something daft. Stealing chickens, breaking into people’s houses with intelligence agents, tackling armed men with a shovel -”

 

“Yes, sir,” she said humbly.

 

“I mean _really_.” He frowned through the car window at the basket for a moment, now quiet, as if the chicken inside sensed her fate was being discussed. “What were you planning to do with her if I may ask?”

 

“I thought perhaps _you_ might like, um.” Sam said. “A chicken?”

 

“Oh so you thought it would be a good idea for me to receive stolen goods?” Foyle asked.

 

“Or I could let her go,” Sam suggested.

 

“So she could end up in a fox’s stomach rather than Mrs Henderson’s?”

 

“At least she’d have a chance,” Sam said stubbornly. “Everyone should have a fighting chance. Even chickens.” She sighed. “I’ll take her back, sir.”

 

“What will you tell Mrs Henderson?” Foyle asked. “That you took her for a walk? That you thought the fresh air would do her good?”

 

“I’ll think of something,” Sam said.

 

Having had experience of Sam’s efforts at deceit, Foyle was quite sure that her efforts to explain the chicken’s unauthorized leave would end with Mrs Henderson at the front desk of the station, demanding charges be laid. He rubbed his forehead and resettled his hat more firmly on his head. “I’d better talk to her,” he said.

 

“Oh, would you, sir?” Sam said hopefully. “I’m _sure_ she’ll listen to you if you explain that Henny Penny just needs a _little_ peace and quiet to start laying again.”

 

Foyle opened the passenger side door a little more forcefully than was his usual wont. “So long as she listens when I explain why you shouldn’t be brought up on a _charge_ ,” he said shortly.

 

“Yes, sir,” Sam said quite meekly, and started the car.

 

It took all Foyle’s powers of persuasion - and the gift of two of his fish - to placate Mrs Henderson. When he returned to the car, Sam’s expression was remorseful.

 

“I’m sorry about your Christmas dinner, sir,” she said. “It was very good of you to, um. _Settle_ Mrs Henderson, as it were.”

 

“I doubt she’ll stay _settled_ if you purloin any more domestic fowl,” Foyle said.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

She drove him home in unaccustomed silence. When she pulled the car to the kerb outside his house, she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I’ve ruined your Christmas dinner, sir.”

 

Foyle chewed the inside of his cheek. “We-ell,” he said. “Still one left. _And_ tea, with sugar, thanks to you.” He got out of the car. “Hungry? It’s a decent sized trout, enough for two.”

 

“Oh, I couldn’t, sir,” Sam said, hopefully.

 

“Nonsense.” Foyle took his belongings from the rear seat. “Course you could. Get the front door, would you?”

 

Beaming, Sam trotted up the steps, Foyle following more slowly. She reached for the doorknob, but it opened before she could touch it, revealing the startled face of Andrew Foyle.

 

There was a small, awkward silence, and then Sam and Andrew spoke at once, both in over-hearty tones.

 

“Glad you could get leave -”

 

“Merry Christmas -”

 

Another awkward silence. _Hardly surprising_ , Foyle thought. _Andrew has every reason to be embarrassed after the way he treated her. Sam has every reason to be hurt._

 

He cleared his throat. “Good to see you, Andrew,” he said. “Make yourself useful.” He held out his burdens.

 

“Hello, Dad,” Andrew said with some relief. He took the rod from Foyle. “Sorry I didn’t call, I only got notice this morning and it was a bit of a mad scramble to get a lift down.”  

 

“Would you have remembered to call if it _hadn’t_ been?” Foyle asked with a raised eyebrow. Now with a free hand, he ushered Sam before him through the door. If he’d been certain Andrew would make it to dinner, he might have spared Sam’s feelings and not issued the invitation _, but I’ll be damned if I’ll send her back to breadcrumbs and beetroot now._

_And if Andrew doesn’t pull himself together and stop making her uncomfortable, he can bloody well take a walk until after dinner._

 

Andrew laughed at his father’s comment, and stepped back to let them enter. “Probably not,” he admitted cheerfully. “But wait ‘till you see what I’ve brought you for Christmas. One of the Yank pilots had a care package from home and -” He stopped, staring at his father in some puzzlement as Foyle walked past him toward the kitchen. “Dad …”

 

“Yes, Andrew?”

 

“Why are you carrying a chicken?”

 

 

 

 

* * *

<fin>

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to set this story in December, which presented me with some problems. December 1941 was too early; December 1942 is when the episode Bleak Midwinter occurs; In December 1943 Foyle has left the police for the first time and December 1944 too late. In the end I settled on December 1942, and I hope readers will forgive me for asking them to pretend ‘Bleak Midwinter’ happens at some other time in December 1942 than this. 
> 
> The moon was not full on 13 December 1942 but St Lucy’s Day, and John Donne’s poem, were too good to pass up. Forgive me!
> 
> the Air Transport Auxiliary, which flew new, repaired and damaged military aircraft between factories and airfields, as well as transporting service personnel on urgent duty, was made up of pilots otherwise unsuitable for active duty - including 166 women, 15 of whom lost their lives.
> 
>  
> 
> Defense Regulation 18B, which came into effect in September 1939, allowed for detention without trial or right of habeus corpus. “If the Secretary of State has reasonable cause to believe any person to be of hostile origin or associations or to have been recently concerned in acts prejudicial to the public safety or the defence of the realm or in the preparation or instigation of such acts and that by reason thereof it is necessary to exercise control over him, he may make an order against that person directing that he be detained.”
> 
> The Allied efforts to break the German codes created by the Enigma machine relied on the pre-war work of the Polish Army, the brilliant insights of mathematicians like Alan Turing, information provided by informants inside the German command, errors by German operators, and the dedicated work and creative genius of the Bletchley Park codebreakers. However, captured German equipment provided valuable shortcuts which aided the efforts to break German codes and I have exercised creative license to suggest one of those incidents occurred in late 1942. 12,000 people, 80% of them women, worked at Bletchley at various points of the war: it is said that their efforts shortened the war by 2 to 4 years, and that without the ‘Ultra’ intelligence produced at Bletchley Park, Allied victory might not have been possible. 
> 
>  
> 
> To those who have expressed enjoyment of Sam’s diary entries, I recommend to you E M Delafield’s “Diary of a Provincial Lady” and sequels (which include “The Provincial Lady In Wartime”).


End file.
